HIBKAIIYOFCOIVGRESS.I 




t UNITED STATES (3F AMERICA, | 



THE NEW PENELOPE 



OTHER STORIES AND POEMS. 



BY 

Mrs. Frances Fuller Victor. 



\ 

San Francisco : 
A. L. BANCROFT &, COMPANY, PRINTERS. 

1877. 






Copyright, 1877, by 
MRS. FRANCES FULLER VICTOR. 



PREFACE. 



This collection consists of sketches of Pacific Coast life, most of 
whicli have appeared, from time to time, in the Overland Montldy, 
and other Western magazines. If they have a merit, it is because they 
picture scenes and characters having the charm of newness and origi- 
nality, such as belong to border life. 

The poems embraced in the collection, have been written at all 
periods of my life, and therefore cannot be called peculiarly Western. 
But they embodj^ feelings and emotions common to all hearts. East or 
West; and as such, I dedicate them to my friends on the Pacific C-oast, 
but most especially in Oregon. 

Portland, Augcst, 1877. 



CONTENTS. 



STORIES. 

PAGE 

The New Penelope 9 

A Curious Interview 80 

Mr. Ela's Story 96 

On the Sands 112 

An Old Fool 132 

How Jack Ha.stings Sold His Mine 180 

What They Told Me at Wilson's Bar 197 

Miss Jorgensen 212 

Sam Rice's Romance 231 

El Tesoro 247 

POEMS. 

A Pagan Reverie 269 

Passing by Helicon 272 

Lost at Sea 275 

'TwAS June, not I '. 276 

Lines to a Lump of Virgin Gold 281 

Magdalena 284 

Repose 289 

ASPASIA 291 

A Reprimand — 296 

To :Mrs. 297 

Moonlight Memories , 299 

Verses for M 301 



6 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

AmMNAl.IA •'^^•^ 

Tai.o Santo •iO''' 

A SiMMKi} Day ^^ 306 

Hk AM) SllK 308 

Wild Novembkh Wi mi 308 

By thk Sea 309 

Polk Colnty Hills 310 

Waitinc 312 

I'ALMA 314 

Making Moan 316 

CiiiLDHoon 317 

A Little Bikd that Every One Knoavs 318 

Wayward Love 319 

A Lyric of Life 320 

From an Unpublished Poem 321 

Nevada 324 

The Vine 326 

What the Sea Said to ]\Ie 327 

Hymn 328 

Do You Hear the Women Praying ? 329 

Our Life is Twofold 331 

Souvenir 334 

1 Only Wished to Know , 335 

Lines Written in an Alhum 335 

Love's Footsteps 336 

The Poet's Ministers 336 

Sunset at the Mouth ok the Columbia 340 

The Passing of the Year 342 



STORIES. 




fn-'^BM^^itOri^m 




The New Penelope and Other Stories 
AND Poems. 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 

I MAY as well avow myself in tlie beginning of my story as 
that anomalous creature — a woman who loves ber own 
sex, and naturally inclines to the stud}- of their individual 
peculiarities and histories, in order to get at their collective 
qualities. If I were to lay before the reader all the good 
and bad I know about them by actual discovery, and all the 
mean, and heroic, attributes this habit I have of studying 
people has revealed to me, I should meet with incredulity, 
perhaps with opprobrium. However that may be, I have 
derived great enjoyment from having been made the recip- 
ient of the confidences of many women, and by learning 
therefrom to respect the moral greatness that is so often 
coupled with delicate physical structure, and almost perfect 
social helplessness. Pioneer life brings to light striking 
characteristics in a remarkable manner; because, in the ab- 
sense of conventionalities and in the presence of absolute 
and imminent necessities, all real qualities come to the sur- 
face as they never would have done under different circum- 
stances. In the early life of the Greeks, Homer found his 
Penelope; in the pioneer days of the Pacific Coast, I dis- 
covered mine. 

My wanderings, up and down among the majestic mount- 



10 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

ains and the sunny valleys of California and Ore<:^on, had 
made me acquainted with many persons, some of whom 
were to me, from the interest they inspired me with, like 
the friends of my girlhood. Among this select number was 
]\Irs. Anna Greytield, at whose home among the foot-hills 
of the Sierras in Northern California, I had spent one of 
the most delightful summers of my life. Intellectual and 
intelligent without being learned or particularly bookish; 
quick in her i:>erceptions and nearly faultless in her judg- 
ment of others; broadly charitable, not through any laxity 
of principle on her own part, but through knowledge of 
the stumbling-blocks of which the world is full for the un- 
wary, she was a constant surprise and pleasure to me. 
For, among the vices of women I had long counted unchar- 
itableness; and among their disadvantages Avant of actual 
knowledge of things — the latter accounting for the former. 

I had several times heard it mentioned that Mrs. Grey- 
field had been twice married; and as her son Benton was 
also called Greyfield, I presumed that he was the son of the 
second marriage. How I found out differently I am about 
to relate. 

One rainy winter evening, on the occasion of ni}' second 
visit to this friend, we were sitting alone before a blight 
wood fire in an open fireplace, when we chanced to refer to 
the subject of her son's personal qualities; he then being- 
gone on a visit to San Francisco, and of course very con- 
stantly in his mother's thoughts, as only sons are sure to be. 

"Benton is just like his father," she said. " He is self- 
possessed and full of expedients, but he says very little. I 
have often wished he conversed more readily, for I admire 
a good talker." 

"And yet did not marry one: — the common lot!" 

Mrs. Greyfield smiled, and gazed into the fire, whose 
pleasant radiance filled the room, bringing out the soft 
warm colors in the carpet, and making fantastic shadows of 
our easy-chairs and ourselves uj)on the wall. 



THE NEW rENELOrE. 11 

"Mr. Greyfield was your second husband?" I said, in 
an inquiring tone, but without expecting to be contra- 
dicted. 

"Mr. Greyfield was my first, List, and only husband," 
she replied, with a touch of asperity, yet not as if she meant 
it for me. 

" I beg- your i^ardon," I hastened to exj)lain: "but I had 
been told — " 

"Yes, lean guess what you have been told. Very few 
people know the truth: but I never had a second husband, 
though I was twice married;" and ni}' hostess regarded me 
with a smile half assumed and half embarrassed. 

For my own part, I was very much embarrassed, because 
I had certainly been informed that she had lived for a num- 
ber of years with a second husband who had not used her 
well, and from whom she was finall}' divorced. Doubt 
her word I could not; neither could I reconcile her state- 
ment with facts apparently w^ell known. She saw my 
dilemma, and, after a brief silence, mentally decided to 
help me out of it. I could see that, in the gradual relaxing 
of certain muscles of her face, which had contracted at the 
first reference to this — as I could not doubt — painful sub- 
ject. Straightening her fine form as if ease of position 
was not compatible with what was in her mind, she grasped 
the arms of her chair with either hand, and looking with a 
retrospective gaze into the fire, began: 

" You see it was this way: the man I married the second 
time had another wife." 

While she drew a deep breath, and made a momentary 
pause, I seemed to take it all in, for I had heard so many 
stories of deserted Eastern homes, and subsequent illegal 
marriages in California, that I was prepared not to be at 
all surprised at what I should learn from her. Directly 
she went on: 

" I found out about it the very day of the marriage. We 
were married in the morning, and in the afternoon a man 



12 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

came over from Vancouver who told me that Mr. Seabrook 
had a wife, and family of children, in a certain town in 
Ohio." Another pause followed, while she seemed to be 
recalling the \e\:j emotions of that time. 

" Vancouver?" I said: " that is on the Columbia River." 
" Yes; I was living in Portland at that time." 
In reply to my glance of surprise, she changed the scene 
of her story to an earlier date. 

" Mr. Greyfield had always wanted to come to California, 
after the gold discoveries; but when he married me he agreed 
not to think of it any more. I was very young and timid, 
and very much attached to my childhood's home, and my 
parents; and I could not bear the thought of going so long 
a distance away from them. It was not then, as it is now, 
an easy journey of one week; but a long six months' pil- 
grimage through a wilderness country infested by Indians. 
To reach what ? another wilderness infested by white bar- 
barians!" 

"But I have always heard," I said, "that women were 
idealized and idolized in those days." 

" That is a very pretty fiction. If you had seen what I 
have seen on this coast, you would not think we had been 
much idealized. "Women have a certain value among men, 
when they can be useful to them. In the old States, where 
every man has a home, women have a fixed position and 
value in society, because they are necessary to make homes. 
But on this coast, in early times, and more or less even now, 
men found they could dispense with homes; they had been 
converted into nomads, to whom earth and sky, a blanket 
and a frying-pan, were sufficient for their needs. Unless 
we came to them armed with endurance to battle with 
primeval nature, we became burdensome. Strong and 
coarse women who could wash shirts in any kind of a tub 
out of doors under a tree, and iron them kneeling on the 
ground, to support themselves and half a dozen little, 
hungry young ones, were welcome enough — before the 



THE NEW rEN ELOPE. 13 

Chinamen displaced them. ^Ve had some value as cooks, 
before men, with large means, turned their attention to 
supplying their brothers with prepared food for a consider- 
ation below what we could do with our limited means. And 
then the ladies, the educated, refined women, who followed 
their husbands to this country, or who came here hoping 
to share, perchance, in the golden spoils of the mines! 
"Where are the}^ to-day, and what is their condition ? Look 
for them ijn the sunless back rooms of San Francisco board- 
ing-houses, and you will find them doing a little fine sew- 
ing for the shops; or working on their own garments, 
which they must make out of school hours, because the 
niggardly pay of teachers in the lower grades will not al- 
low of their getting them done. Idealized indeed! Men 
talk about our getting out of our places where we clamor 
for paying w^ork of some kind, for something to do that 
will enable us to live in half comfort by working more 
hours than they do to earn lordly livings." 

How much soever I might have liked to talk this labor 
question over with my intelligent hostess at any other time, 
my curiosity concerning her own history having been so 
strongly aroused, the topic seemed less interesting than 
usual, and I seized the opportunity given by an emphasized 
pause to bring her back to the original subject. 

"Did you come first to California?" I asked. 

"No. I had been married little over a year when Benton 
was born. 'Now,' I thought, *my husband will be con- 
tented to stay at home.' He had been fretting about having 
promised not to take me to California; but I hoped the 
baby would divert his thoughts. We were doing Avell, and 
had a pleasant house, with everything in and about it that 
a young couj^le ought to desire. I deceived myself in ex- 
pecting Mr. Greyfield to give up anything he had strongly 
desired ; and seeing how much he brooded over it, I finally 
told him to be comforted; that I would go with him- to 



14 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

California if lie woukl wait until the bal)y was a year old 
before starting; and to this he agreed." 

" How old were you at that time?" 

"Only about nineteen. I was twenty the spring we 
started ; and celebrated my anniversary by making a gen- 
eral gathering of all my relatives and friends at our house, 
before we broke up and sold off our house-keeping goods 
— all but such as could be carried in our wagons across the 
plains." 

"You were not starting by yourselves?" 

" O no. There w\as a large company gathering together 
on the Missouri river, to make the start in May ; and we, 
with some of our neighbors, made ready to join them. I 
shall never forget my feelings as I stood in my own house 
for the last time, taking a life-long leave of every familiar 
object ! But you do not want to hear about that." 

"I want to hear what you choose to tell me; but most of 
all about your second marriage, and what led to it." 

" It is not easy to go back so many years and take up 
one thread in the skein of life, and follow that alone. I 
will disentangle it as raj^idly as I can ; but first let us have 
a fresh fire." 

Suiting the action to the word, my hostess touched a 
bell and ordered a good supply of wood, which I took as 
an intimation that we were to have one of our late sittings. 
In confirmation of this susjiicion a second order w-as given 
to have certain refreshments, including hot lemonade, made 
ready to await our pleasure. When Ave were once more 
alone I begged her to go on with her story. 

"We left the rendezvous in May, and traveled without 
any unusual incidents all through the summer." 

" I beg pardon for interrupting you ; but I do Avant to 
know how you endured that sort of life. Was it not ter- 
rible ?" 

■"It was monotonous, it was disagreeable, but it was not 
terrible while everybody wus well. There were compensa- 



THE NEW PENELOFE. 15 

tions in it, as in almost any kind of life. My husband was 
strong and cheerful, now that he was having his own waj^; 
the baby throve on fresh air and good milk— for we had 
milch cows with us — and the summer months on the grassj' 
plains are delightful, except for rather frequent thunder 
storms. The grass was good, and our cattle in fine order. 
Everything went well until the cholera broke out among us." 

"And then?" 

"And then my husband died." 

"Ah, Avhat have not pioneer women endured!" 

" Mr. Grey field had from the first been regarded as a sort 
of leader. Without saying much, but b}' being always in 
the right place at the right time, he had gained an ascend- 
ancy over the less courageous, strong and decided men. 
"When the cholera came he was continually called upon to 
nurse the sick, to bury the dead and comfort the living." 

"And so became the easier victim ? " 

My remark was unheeded, while my hostess lived over 
again in recollection the fearful scenes of the cholera sea- 
son on the plains. I wanted to divert her, and called her 
attention to the roaring of the wind and beating of the rain 
without. 

" Yes," she said; " it stormed just in that way the night 
before he died. We all were di'enched to the skin, and he 
was not in a condition to bear the exjoosure. I was myself 
half sick with fever, and when the shock came I became 
delirious. When I came to myself we were a hundred and 
fifty miles away from the place where he died." 

" How dreadful! " I could not heljD exclaiming. "Not 
even to know how and where he was buried." 

"Nor if he were buried at all. So frightened were the 
people in our train that they could not be prevailed upon 
to take proper care of the sick and d3"ing, nor pay proper 
respect to the dead. After my reason returned, the one sub- 
ject that I could not bear to have mentioned was that of 
my husband's death. Some of the men belonging to the 



16 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

train liad taken cliarge of my affairs and furnished a driver 
for the wagon I was in. The women took care of Benton; 
and! lived, who woukl much rather have died. Probably 
I should have died, but for the need I felt, when I could 
think, of somebody to care for, support and educate my 
child. My constitution was good; and that, with the 
anxiety about Benton, made it possible for me to live." 

" My dear friend," I exclaimed; " what a dreadful expe- 
rience ! I wonder that you are alive and sit there talking 
to me, this moment." 

" You will wonder more before I have done," she re- 
turned, with what might be termed a superior sort of smile 
at my inexperience. 

" But how did you get to Oregon?" I asked, interrupt- 
ing her again. 

" Our train was about at the place where the Oregon and 
California emigrants parted comi)any, when I recovered 
my reason and strength enough to have any concern about 
where I was going. Some of those who had started for 
Oregon had determined to go to Calif oi-nia; and the :nost 
particular friend Mr. Grey field had in the train had decided 
to go to Oregon instead of to California, as he first intended. 
Now, when my husband was hopeless of his own re- 
covery, he had given me in charge of this man, with in- 
structions to be governed by him in all my business affairs; 
and I had no thought of resisting his will, though that be- 
quest was the cause of the worst sorrows of my life, by 
compelling me to go to Oregon." 

"Why cannot people be contented with ruling while 
living, without subjecting others to the domination of an 
irrevocable will, when they are no longer able to mold or 
govern circumstances. I beg your pardon. Pray go on. 
But first let me inquire whether the person to whom you 
were commanded to trust your affairs proved trustworthy ?" 

"As trustworthy as uearl}' absolute power on one side, 
and timid inexperience on the other, is likely to make any 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 17 

one. When we arrived finally in Portland, he took my 
"wagons and cattle off luy hands, and returned me next to 
nothing for them. Yet, he was about like the average ad- 
ministrator; it did not make much difference, I suppose, 
whether this one man got my property, or a probate court." 

"Poor child! I can see just how you were situated. 
Alone in a new country, with a baby on your hands, and 
Avithout means to make a home for yourself. What did 
3'ou do ? did you never think of going back to j'our parents?" 

" How could I get back ? The tide of travel was not in 
that direction. Besides, I had neither money nor a suffi- 
cient outfit. There was no communication by mail in those 
daj's oftener than once in three months. You might j)erish 
a thousand times before you could get assistance from the 
East. O, no! there was nothing to be done, except to 
make the best of the situation." 

" Certainly, you had some friends among your fellow- 
immigrants who interested themselves in your behalf to 
find you a home ? Somebody besides your guardian already 
mentioned." 

"The most of them were as badl}' off as myself. Many 
had lost near friends. I was not the only widow; but some 
women had lost their husbands who had several young 
children. They looked upon me as comparatively fortu- 
nate. Men had lost wives, and these were the most wretched 
of all; for a woman can contrive some Avay to take care of 
her children, where a man is perfectly helpless. Families, 
finding no houses to go into by themselves, were huddled 
together in any shelter that could be procured. The lines 
of partition in houses were often as imaginary as the paral- 
lels of latitude on the earth; or were defined by a window, 
or a particular board in the wall. O, I could' nt live in 
that Avay. My object Avas to get a real home somcAvhere. 
As soon as 1 could, I rented a room in a house with a good 
family, for the sake of the protection thcA' would be to me, 
2 



18 THE NEW P EX ELOPE. 

and went to work to eiivn a living-. Of course, peoj^le were 
forward enough with their suggestions." 

" Of what, for instance?" 

"Most persons — in fact ever3'body that I talked with 
— said I should have to marry. But I could not think of 
it; the mention of it always made me sick that first winter. 
I was recovering strength, and Avas young ; so I thought I 
need not despair." 

" Such a woman could not but have plenty of offers, in 
a new country esj^ecially ; hut I understand how you must 
have felt. You could not marry so soon after your hus- 
band's death, and it revolted you to be approached on the 
subject. A wife's love is not so easily transferred." 

" You speak as any one might think, not having been in 
my circumstances. But there was something more than 
that in the feeling I had. I could not realize the fact of 
Mr. Grey field's death. It was as if he had onh' fallen 
behind the train, and might come up with us any day. I 
waited for him all that winter.". 

"How distressing!" I could not help saying. Mrs. 
Greyfield sat silent for some minutes, while the storm raged 
furiously without. Slie rested her cheek on her hand and 
gazed into the glowing embers, as if the past were all 
pictured there in living colors. For me to saj'-, as I did, 
"how distressing," no doubt seemed to her the merest 
platitude. There are no conventional forms for the ex- 
pression of the utmost grief or sympathy. Silence is most 
eloquent, but I could not kee^^ silence. At last I asked, 
" "What did she do to earn a living?" 

"I learned to make men's clothes. There was a clothing 
store in the place that gave me employment. First I made 
vests, and then pants ; and finally I got to be quite expert, 
and could earn several dollars a day. But a dollar did not 
buy much in those times ; and oh, the crying spells that I 
had over my work, before I had mastered it sufficiently to 
have confielence in mvself. Sanclio Pauza blessed the man 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 19 

that iuveuted sleep — I sa}-, blessed be the woman that in- 
vented crying-fits, for they save thousands and thousands 
of women from madness, annually !" 

This was a return to that sprightl}' manner of speech 
that was one of Mrs. Greyfield's peculiar attractions; and 
which often cropped out in the least expected places. But 
though she smiled, it was easy to see that tears would not be 
far to seek. " And yet," I said, " it is a bad habit to culti- 
vate — the habit of weeping. It wastes the blood at a 
fearful rate." 

" Don't I know it? But it is safer than frenzy. Why I 
used — but I'll not tell you about that yet. I set out to 
explain to you my marriage with Mr. Seabrook. As I told 
you, everybody said I must marry ; and the reasons they 
gave were, that I must have somebody to support me ; that 
it was not safe for me to live alone ; that my son would 
need a man's restraining hand when he came to be a few 
years older; and that I, myself, was too young to live 
without love! — therefore the only correct thing to do was to 
take a husband- — a good one, if you could get him — a 
husband, anyway. As spring came round, and my mind 
regained something of its natural elasticity, and my per- 
sonal appearance probably improved with returned health, 
the air seemed full of husbands. Everybod}- that had any 
business with me, if he happened not to have a wife, im- 
mediately proposed to take me in that relation. All the 
married men of my acquaintance jested with me on the 
subject, and their wives followed in the same silly iteration. 
I actually felt myself of some consequence, whether by 
nature or by accident, until it became irksome." 

" How did all your suitors contrive to get time for court- 
sbijD? " I laughingly inquired. 

" O, time was the least of their requirements. You 
know, perhaps, that there was an Oregon law, or, rather, 
a United States law, giving a mile square of land to a man 
and his wife : to each, half. Now some of the Oregonians 



20 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

made this " Donation Act" an excuse for going from door 
to door to beg a wife, as they pretended, in order to be 
able to take up a Avht)le section, though wlien not one of 
them ever cultivated a quarter section, or ever meant to." 

"And they come to you in this way? AVhat did they 
say ? how did they act? " 

" Why, they rode a sj^otted cayuse up to the door with a 
great show of hurry, jangling their Mexican spurs, and mak- 
ing as much noise as possible. As there were no sidewalks 
in Portland, then, they could sit on their horses and open 
a door, or knock at one, if they had so much politeness. In 
either case, as soon as they saw a woman they asked if she 
were married; and if not, would she marry ? there Avas no 
more ceremony about it." 

"Did they ever really get wives in that Avay, or was it 
done in recklessness and sport ? It seems incredible that 
any woman could accept such an otter as that." 

"There were some matches made in tliat way; though, 
as you might conjectui-e, ihej were not of the kind made in 
heaven, and most of them were afterwards dissolved by leg- 
islative action or decree of the courts." 

" Trul}'' you were right, when j^ou said women are not 
idealized in primitive conditions of society," I said, after 
the first mirthful impulse created by so comical a recital 
had passed. " But how Avas it, that wdth so much to dis- 
gust you with the very name of marriage, j-ou finally did 
consent to take a husband? He, certainly, was not one of 
the kind that came riding up to doors, proposing on the 
instant?" 

"No, he was not: but he might as well have been for any 
difference it made to me," said Mrs. Greyfield, with that 
bitterness in her tone that alwaj's came into it when she 
spoke of Seabrook. "You ask 'how was it that I at last 
consented to take a husband ? ' Do you not know that such 
influences as constantly surrounded me, are demoralizing 
as I said ? You hear a thing talked of until you become ac- 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 21 

customed to it. It is as Poi^e says: You ' first endure, then 
pity, then embrace.' I endured, felt contempt, and finally 
yielded to the pressure. 

"Why, you have no idea, from what I have told you, of 
the reality. My house as I have already- mentioned, was 
one room in a tenement. It opened directly upon the street. 
In one corner was a bed. Opposite the door was a stove 
for cooking- and warming the house. A table and two chairs 
besides my little sewing-chair completed the furnishing of 
the apartment. The floor was bare, except where I had put 
down an old coverlet for a rug before the bed. Here in 
this crowded place I cooked, ate, slept, worked, and re- 
ceived company and offers! 

"Just as an example of the way in which some of my 
my suitors broached the subject I will describe a scene. 
Fancy me kneeling on the floor, stanching the blood from 
quite a serious cut on Benton's hand. The door opens be- 
hind me, and a man I never have seen before, thrusts his 
head and half his body in at the opening. His salutation 
is ' Howdy!' — his first remark, 'I heern thar was a mighty 
purty widder livin' here; and I reckon my infurmation was 
correct. If you woidd like to marry, I'm agreeable.' " 

"How did you receive this candidate? You have not 
told 2ne what you replied on these occasions," I said, 
amused at this picture of pioneer life. 

" I turned my head around far enough to get one look 
at his face, and asking him rather crossly ' if there were any 
more fools where he came from,' went on bandaging Ben- 
ton's hand." 

The recollection of this absurd incident caused the nar- 
rator to laugh as she had not often laughed in my hearing. 

"This may have been a second Werther," I remarked, 
"and surely no Charlotte could have been more unfeeling 
than you showed yourself. It could not be that a man com- 
ing in that way expected to get any other answer than the 
one vou gave him ? " 



22 THE NEW ]'EXELnl'E. 

"I do not know, and I did not then care. One day a 
man, to Avliose niotlierless cliildren I had been kind when 
opi)ortunity ol!ered, slouched into my room without tlie 
ceremony of knocking and dropping into a chair as if his 
knees failed him, began twirling his battered old hat in an 
embarrassed manner, and doing as so many of his predeces- 
sors had done — in-oposing oft-hand. He had a face like a 
terra-eotta image, a long lank figure, faded old clothes, and 
a whining voice." 

" He told me that he had no ' woman,' and that I had no 
' man,' a condition that he evidently considered dej^lorable. 
He assured me that I suited him ' fustrate;' that his chil- 
dren ' sot gret store by me,' and ' liked my victuals;' and 
that he thought a ' heap ' of my little boy. He also im- 
jn'essed upon me that he had been 'considerin' the 'range- 
ment of jinin' firms for some time. To close the business 
at once, he proposed that I should accept of him for my 
husband then and there." 

"And pray, what did you say to him!" 

" I told him that I did not know what use I had for him, 
unless I should j)ut him behind the stove, and break bark 
over his head." 

This reply tickled mj' fancy so much that I laughed until 
I cried. I insisted on knowing what put it into her mind 
to say that. 

"You see, we burned fir wood, the bark of which is 
better to make heat than the w'oody portion of the tree; 
but is never sawed or split, and has to be broken. I used 
to take up a big piece, and bring it down with a blow over 
any sharp corner to knock it into smaller fragments, and 
something in the man's appearance, I supjDose, suggested 
that he might be good for that, if for nothing else. I did 
not sto}) to frame mj' replies on any forms laid down in 
young ladies' manuals; but they seemed to be conclusive 
as a general thing." 

" I should think so. Yet, there must have been some. 



THE NEW PENELOrE. 23 

more nearly your equals, attracted by your youtli and beauty, 
loving you, or capable of loving yow, to whom you could 
not give such ansAvers, by whom such answers would not 
be taken." 

"As I look back upon it now, I cannot think of any one 
I might have taken and did not, that I regret. There were 
men of all classes nearly; but the}' were not desirable, as I 
saAV it then, or as I see it uoav. It is true that I was yovmg, 
and pretty, perhaps, and that women were in a minority. 
But then, too, the men who were floating about on the sur- 
face of pioneer society were not likely to be the kind of men 
that make true lovers and good husbands. Some of them 
have settled down into steady -going benedicts, and have 
money and j^osition. The worst effect of all this talk about 
marrying was, that it prepared me to be persuaded against 
my inner consciousness into doing that which I ought not 
to have done. My truer judgment had become confused, 
my perceptions clouded, from being so often assailed by 
the united majority who could not bear to see poor, little 
minority go unappropriated. But come, let us have our 
cakes and lemonade. You need something to sustain you 
while I complete the recital of my conquests." 

I felt that she needed a brief interval in which to collect 
her thoughts and calm a growing nervousness that in spite 
of her efforts at pleasantry would assert itself in various 
little w'ays, evident enough to my observation. A sauce- 
pan of water was set upon the hot coals on the hearth, the 
lemons cut and squeezed into two elegant goblets, upon 
square lumps of sugar that eagerly took up the keen acid, 
and gTew yellow and spong}' in consequence. A sociable 
little round table was rolled out of its seclusion in a corner, 
and made to support a tray between us, whereon were such 
dainty cakes and confections as my hostess delighted in. 

There was an air of substantial comfort in all the ar- 
rangements of my friend's house that made it a peculiarly 
pleasant one to visit. It lacked nothing to make it home- 



24 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

like, restful, attractive. The house itself was lary;e and 
airy, with charming views; the fui-niture sufficiently elegant 
without being too fine for use; flowers, birds, and all inau- 
iier of curios abounded, yet were never in the way, as they 
so often are in the houses of people who are fond of j^retty 
and curious things, but have no really refined taste to 
arrange them. Our little ten-o'clock lunch was jjerfect in 
its appointments — a " thing of beauty," as it was of palat- 
ableness and refreshment. So strongly was I impressed 
at the moment with this talent of Mrs. Greyfield's, that I 
could not refrain from speaking of it, as we sat sipj^ing hot 
and spicy lemonade from those exquisite cut-glass goblets 
of her choosing, and tasting dainties served on the loveliest 
china: "Yes, I suppose it is a gift of God, the same as a 
taste for the high arts is an endowment from the same 
source. Did it never strike you as being absurd, that men 
should expect, and as far as they can, require all Avomen to 
be good housekeepers ? They might as Avell expect every 
mechanic to carve in wood or chisel marble into forms of 
life. But it is my one available talent, and has stood me 
in good stead, though I have no doubt it w^as one chief 
cause of my trouble, by attracting Mr. Seabrook." 

" You must know," I said, "that I am tortured with cu- 
I'iosity to hear about that person. Will you not now begin ? " 

" Let me see — where did I leave off? I was telling you 
that although I had so many suitors, of so many classes, 
and none of them desirable, to my way of thinking, I was 
really gradually being influenced to mai'ry, Y^ou must 
know that a woman so young and so alone in the world, 
and who had to labor for her bread, and her child's bread, 
could not escape the solicitations of men who did not care 
to marry; and it was this class who gave me more uneasi- 
ness than all the presuming ignorant ones, Avho Avould 
honor me by making me a wife. I know it is constantly 
asserted, by men themselves, that no Avoman is approached 
in that Avay Avho does not give some encouragement. But 



THE XEW PEN ELOPE. 25 

iio statement could be more utterly false — unless they de- 
termine to construe ordinary politeness and friendliness 
into a covert advance. The cunning of the "father of 
lies " is brought to bear to entrap artless and inexperienced 
Avonien into situations -whence they are assured there is no 
escape without disgrace. 

"During my first year of widowhood ni}^ feelings were 
several times outraged in this way; and at first I was so 
humiliated, and had such a sense of guilt, that it made me 
sick and unfit for my work. The guilty feeling came, I 
now know, from the consciousness I had of the popular 
opinion I have referred to, that there must be something- 
wrong in my deportment. But by calling to mind all the 
circumstances connected with these incidents, and studying 
my own behavior and the feelings that impelled me, I 
taught myself at last not to care so very much about it, 
after the first emotions of auger had passed away. Still I 
thought I could perceive that I was not quite the same per- 
son: you understand? — the 'bloom' was being brushed 
away." 

"What an outrage! What a shame, that a woman in 
your situation could not be left to be herself , with her own 
pure thoughts and tender sorrows ! "NVas there no one to 
whom you could go for advice and sympathy ? — ^none among 
all those who came to the country with you who could have 
helped you ? " 

' ' The people who came out with me Avere mostly scat- 
tered through the farming country; and would have been of 
very little use to me if they had not been. In fact, they would, 
probably, have been first to condemn me, being chiefly of an 
uneducated class, and governed more by traditions than by 
the wisdom of experience. There were two or three fam- 
ilies whose acquaintance I had made after arriving in Port- 
land, who were kindly disposed towards me, and treated 
me with great neighborliness; especially the family that 
was in the same tenement with me. To them I sometimes 



26 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

mentioned my troubles; l)ut Avliile tbe^- were Avilling to do 
anyt]un<>- for me in the way of a common friendly service, 
like the loaning of an article of household convenience, or 
sitting with me when Benton was sick — as he very often 
was — they could not understand other needs, or minister 
to the sickness of the mind. If I received any counsel, it 
was to the effect that a w(^man was in eveiy way better off 
to he married. I used to wonder why God had not made 
us manied — why he had given us our individual natures, 
since there was forever this necessity of being paired ! " 

" Yet you had loved j'our husband ? " 

" I had never ceased to love him! — and that was just 
what these people could not understand. Death cut them 
loose from everything, and they were left with only strong 
desires, and no sentiment to sanctify them. That I should 
love a dead husband, and turn with disgust from a living 
one, was inexplicable to them." 

"My dear, I think I see the rock on which you wrecked 
your happiness." For the moment I had forgotten what 
she had told me in the beginning, that Seabrook had 
married her illegally; and was imagining her married to a 
living husband, and loving only the memory of one dead. 
She saw my error, and informed me by a look. Pushing 
away the intervening table with its diminished contents, 
and renewing the fire, Mrs. Greyfield proceeded: 

" It would take too long to go over the feelings of those 
times, and assign their causes. You are a woman that can 
put yourself in my jjlace, to a great extent, though not 
wdiolly; for there are some things that cannot be imagined, 
and only come by experience." 

" Benton was two years and a half old; a verj' delicate 
child, suft'ering nearly all the time with chills and fever. 
I had occasional attacks of illness from the malaria, always 
to be met with on the clearing up of low-lands near a river. 
Still I was able to sew enough to keep a shelter over our 
heads, and bread in our mouths, until I had been a year in 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 27 

Portland. But I could not get ahead in the least, and was 
often very low spirited. About this time I made the ac- 
quaintance of Mr. Seabrook. He was introduced to me 
by a mutual acquaintance, and having a little knowledge 
of medicine, gave me both advice and remedies for Benton, 
He used to come in quite often, and look after the child, 
and praise my hcusekeej^iug, which probably was somewhat 
better than that of the average pioneer of those days. He 
never paid me any silh' compliments, or disturbed my tran- 
quillity with love-making of any sort. Just for that reason 
I began to like him. He was tAvelve or fifteen years older 
than mj'self ; and more than ordinarily fine-looking and in- 
telligent. You have no idea, because j^ou have never been 
so placed, what a comfort it was to me to have such a 
friend." 

" Yes, I think I know. " 

" One day he said to me, ' Mrs. Greyfield, this sitting and 
sewing all day is bad for your health. Now, I should think, 
being so good a housekeeper, you might do ver}' well by 
taking a few boarders; and I believe you could stand that 
kind of labor better than sewing.' We had a little talk 
about it, and he proposed tr3'ing to find me a house suited 
to the purpose; to which I very readily consented; for, 
though I was wholl}' inexperienced in any business, I 
thought it better to venture the exj)eriment than to keep on 
as I was doing." 

" How did you expect to get furniture? Pardon me; but 
you see I want to learn all about the details of so strange a 
life." 

"I don't think I expected anything, or thought of all 
the difficulties at once." 

" Which was fortunate, because they would have dis- 
couraged you." 

" It is hard to say what has or has not been for the best. 
But for that boarding-house scheme, I do not believe I 
should have married the man I did. 



28 THE XEW PENELOPE. 

"As I -was saying, Mr. Seabrook never anno^-ed me \s\i\\ 
attentions. He came and talked to me in a friendly man- 
ner, and with a suiierior air that disarmed apprehension ou 

that score. Mrs. , my neighbor in the next room, 

once hinted to me that his visits were indicative of his in- 
tentions, and thereby caused me a sleepless night. But as 
he never referred to the subject, and as I Avas now full of 
my new business project, the alarm subsided. A house 
was finally secured, or a part of a house, consisting- of a 
kitchen, dining-room and bed-room, on the first floor ; and 
the same number of rooms above. I had a comfortable 
supply of bedding and table linen ; the trouble was about 
cabinet furniture. But as most of my boarders were bach- 
elors, who quartered themselves where they could, I got 
along very well." 

"You made a success of it, then?" 

"I made a success. I threw all my energies into it, 
and had all the boarders I could cook for. 

"Mr. Seabrook boarded with you? — I conjecture that." 

"Yes; and he took a room at my house. At first I liked 
it well enough; I had so much confidence in him. But 
in a short time I thought I could perceive that my other 
boarders were disposed to think that we looked toward a 
nearer relationship in the future. Perhaps they were justi- 
fied in thinking so, as they could only judge from appear- 
ances; and I had asked Mr. Seabrook to take the foot of 
the table, and carve, because I had so much else to do that 
it was impossible for me to do that also. Gradually he as- 
sumed more the air of proprietor than of boarder; but as 
he was so much older and wiser, and had been of so much 
service to me, I readily pardoned Avhat I looked upon as a 
matter of no great consequence. 

" It proved to be, however, a matter of very great conse- 
quence. I had been established in the new house and 
business four or five Aveeks, Avhen one evening, Benton be- 
ing unusually ill, I asked Mr. Seabrook's advice about him. 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 29 

M}' bed-room was up stairs, against tlie i^artition "svliicli 
separated my apartments from those occupied by a family 
of Germans. I chose that room for myself because it 
seemed less lonely, and safer for me, to be where I could 
hear the voice of the little German woman, and she could 
hear mine. In the same manner my kitchen joined on to 
hers, and we could hear each othei' at our work. Benton 
being too ill to be dressed, was lying on the bed in my 
room, and I asked Mr. Seabrook to go up and look at him. 
He examined him and told me Avhat to do, in his usual 
decided and assured manner, and went back to the dining 
room, which was also my sitting-room. As soon as Benton 
was quieted, so that I could leave him, I also returned to 
the lower part of the house to finish my evening tasks. 

' ' There is such a feeling of hatred arises in my heart 
when I recall that. part of my history that it makes me fear 
my own wickedness ! Do j'ou. think we can hate so much as 
to curse and blight our own natures?" 

" Undoubtedh"; but that would be a sort of frenzy, and 
would finall}' end in madness. You do not feel in that 
way. It is the over-mastering sense of wrong suffered, for 
which there can be no redress. Terrible as the feeling is, 
it must be free from the wickedness you impute to yourself. 
Your nature is sound and sweet at the core — I feel sure of 
that." 

" Thank 3'ou. I have had many grave doubts about ni}^- 
self. But to go on. Contrary to his usual habit, Mr. Sea- 
brook remained at the house that evening, and in the din- 
ing-room instead of his own room. I was so busy with my 
work and anxious about Benton, that I did not give more 
than a passing thought to him. He, also, seemed much 
pre-occui)ied. 

"At last my work was done, and I took a light to go to 
my room, telling Mr. Seabrook to put out the lights below 
stairs, as I should not be down again. ' Stop a moment,' 
said he, ' I have something to tell you that you ought to 



30 Till-: XKW pkneiju'E. 

know.' He very pulitel}' placed a ch:iir for me, Avliich I 
took. His mauners were faultless in the matter of eti- 
([uotte — and bow very far a fine manner goes, in onr esti- 
mate of people! I had not the shadow of a suspicion of 
what was coming. ' Mrs. Greyfield,' he said, with great 
gravity, ' I fear I have unintentionally compromised you 
very seriously. In advising you to take this house, and 
open it for boarders, I was governed entirely by what I con- 
ceived to be your best interests; but it seems that I en-ed 
in my judgment. You are very young — only twenty-three, 
I believe, and — I beg your pardon — too beautiful to pass 
unnoticed in a community like this. Your boarders, so 
far, are all gentlemen. Further, it has been noticed and 
commented upon that — really, I do not know how to ex- 
press it — that / have seemed to take the place in your 
household that — pray, forgive me, Mrs. Greyfield — only a 
husband, in fact or in expectancy, could be expected or 
permitted to occupy. Do you see what I mean?'. 

"I sat stunned and speechless while he went on. 'I 
presume your good sense will direct you in this matter, and 
that you will grasp the right horn of the dilemma. If you 
would allow me to help j-ou out of it, you would really pro- 
mote my hajipiness. Dear Mrs. Greyfield, permit me to 
ofter you the love and protection of a husband, and stop 
these gossips' mouths.' " 

"You do not think he had premeditated this?" I asked. 

" I did not take it in then, but afterwards I saw it plainly 
enough. He pressed me for an answer, all the time plausi- 
bly protesting that although he had hoped some time to 
Avin my love, he had not anticipated the necessity for urg- 
ing his suit as a matter of expediency. In vain I argued 
that if his presence in the house was an injury to me, he 
could leave it. It was too late, he said. I indignantly 
declared that it was not my fault that my boarders were all 
men. I was Avorking for my living, and would just as will- 
ingly have boarded any other creature if I could have got 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 31 

my money for it; a monkey or a sheep; it Avas all the same 
to me. He smiled superiorly on my fretfulness; and when 
I at last burst into a passion of tears, bade me good night 
with such an air of being extremely forbearing and judi- 
cious that I could not help regarding myself as a foolish 
and undisciplined child. 

"That night I scarcely slept at all. Benton was feverish, 
and I half wild. All sorts of plans ran through my head; 
but turn the matter over any way I would, it amounted to 
the same thing. The money I must earn, must come from 
men. "Whether I sewed or cooked, or whatever I did, they 
were the paymasters to whom I looked for my wages. 
How, then, was it i:)Ossible to escape contact with them, or 
avoid being misunderstood. In one breath I resented, with 
all the ardor of my soul, the impertinence of the world's 
judgment, and in the next I declared to myself that I did 
not care; that conscious innocence should sustain me, and 
that I had a right to do the best I could for myself and 
child. 

"But that Avas only sham courage. I was morally a 
coward, and could not possibW face the evil spirit of de- 
traction. Therefore, the morning found me feverish in 
body and faint in spirit. I kept out of sight of my boarders, 
except Mr. Seabrook, who looked into the kitchen with a 
sympathizing face, and inquired very kindly after Bennie, 
as he pet-named Benton. "When m}^ dinner was over that 
day, I asked the little Grerman woman to keep the child 

until I could go on an errand, and went over to Mrs. , 

m}' old house-mate, to get advice. 

"Do you know how much advice is worth? If you like 
it, 3'ou haven't needed it; and if you do not like it, you will 

not take it. Mrs. told me that if she were in my 

place, as if she could he in my place! she would get rid of 
all her troubles by getting some man to take charge of her 
and her aftairs. When I asked, with transparent duplicity, 
where I was to find a man for this service, she laughed in 



32 THE NEW PEX ELOPE. 

lay face. People did talk so then, ajid what ]Mr. Seabrook 
said was tlie unexagyerated truth. It did not occur to nie 
to examine into the authorship of the rumors; I Avas too 
shrinking' and sensitive for that. 

•' "When I reached home I found Mr. Seahrook at the 
house. A sudden feeling of anger flashed into ni}' mind, 
and must have illuminated my eyes; for he gave me one de- 
precating glance, and immediately went out. This made me 
fear I was unjust to him. That evening he did not come to 
tea, but sent me a note saying he had business at Vancouver 
and would not return for two or three days; but that when 
he did return it w'ould be better to have my mind made up 
to dismiss him entirely out of the country, or to have our 
engagement made known. 

"That threw the whole responsibility upon me; and it 
was, as he knew it would be, too heavy for my twenty-three 
3'ears to carr}'. To lose the most helpful and agreeable 
friend I had in the country, to banish him for no fault but 
being too kind to me, or to take him in j^lace of one whose 
image would always stand between us: that was the alter- 
native. 

"The next day an incident occurred that decided my des- 
tiny. I had to go out to make some jiurchases for the 
house. At the store where I usually bought pi'ovisions I 
chanced to meet a woman who had crossed the continent 
in m}' company; and she turned her back upon me without 
speaking. She was an ignorant, bigoted sort of woman, 
of an uncertain temper, and at another time I might not 
have cared for the slight; but coming at a time when I was 
in a state of nervous alarm, it cut me to the quick. With 
great difficult}' I restrained my tears, and left the store. 
"While hurr3'ing home with a basket on my arm, almost 
choked with grief, I passed a kind old gentleman who had 
alwfiys before had a pleasant word for me, and an inquiry 
about my child. He, too, passed me with only the slight- 
est sign of recognition. I thought my heart would burst 



THE NEW rEX ELOPE. 33 

ill my breast, so terrible was tlie sense of outrage and 
shame — " 

"Which was, after all, probably imaginary," I inter- 
rupted. " The insult of the ignorant, ill-tempered woman 
was purely an accidental display of those qualities, and the 
slight recognition of your old friend the conseqvience of 
the other, for your face certainly expressed the state of your 
feelings, and your friend was surprised into silence by see- 
ing you in such distress." 

"That, very likel}^, is the true explanation. But it did 
not so impress me then. You cannot, in the state of mind 
I was in, go after people, and ask them to tell you whether 
or not they reall}' mean to insult you, because you are only 
too certain that they do. I was sick with pain and mortifi- 
cation. How I got through my day's work I do not re- 
member; but you can understand that my demoralization 
was complete by this time, and that when Mr. Seabrook re- 
turned I was like wax in his hands. All that I stipulated 
for was a little more time; he had my permission to an- 
nounce our engagement. 

" My boarders and every one who spoke to me about it 
congratulated me. When I look back upon it now, it 
seems strange that no one ever suggested to me the im- 
portance of knowing the antecedents of the man I was 
going to marry; but they did not. It seemed to be tacitly 
understood that antecedents were not to be dragged to 
light in this new world, and that " by-gones should be by- 
gones." As to myself, it never occurred to my inexperi- 
ence to suspect that a man might be dishonorable, even 
criminal, though he had the outside bearing of a gentle- 
man." 

" Did he propose to relieve you of the necessity of keep- 
ing boarders ? " 

"No. The business was a good one; and, as I have 
said, I was a success in this line. My constitution was 
good; my energy immense, in labor; my training in house- 
3 



34 ^'//7^ AEll' PENELOPE. 

hold econom.y good; and, Losides, I had a real talent for 
pleaaiug' my boarders. I was to be provided Avith a servant; 
uud the care of the mavketin<;>" would devolve upon Mr. Sea- 
brook. With this amelioration of my labors, the burden 
could be easily borne for the sake of the profits." 

" "What business was Mr. Seabrook in ? " 

" I never thought of the subject at that time. He was 
always well dressed; associated with men of business; 
seemed to have money; and I never doubted that such a 
man was able to do anything he proposed. Women, you 
know, unconsciously attribute at least an earthly omnipo- 
tence to men. Afterwards, of course, I Avas disillusioned. 
But I must hasten, for it is growing late; and either the 
storm or these old memories shake m}' nerves. 

" I had asked for a month's time to prepare my mind for 
my coming marriage. At the end of a week, however, 
Mr. Seabrook came to me and told me that imperative busi- 
ness called him awa}' for an absence of several weeks, and 
that, in his judgment, the marriage ceremony should take 
place before he left. He should be away over the month 
I had stipulated for; and, in case of accident, I would have 
the protection of his name. M3' objections were soon over- 
ruled, and on the morning of his departure w'e were mar- 
ried — as I believed, legally and firmly bound — in the pres- 
ence of my family of boarders, and two or three women, 

including Mrs. . He went away immediately, and I 

was left to my tumultuous thoughts." 

" May I be permitted to know whether you loved him at 
all, at that time? It seems to me that you must have some- 
times yearned for the ownership of some heart, and the 
sti'ong tenderness of man's firmer nature.' 

Mrs. Greyfield looked at me with a curiously mix:ed ex- 
pression, half of sarcastic i)ity, half of amused contempt. 
But the thought, whatever it was, went unspoken. Slie 
reflected a moment silently before she answered. 

"I have told you that my heart remained uuweaned from 



THE XEW PENELOPE. 35 

the memory of my dead liusband. I told Mr. Seabrook 
the same. But I admired, respected and believed in him; 
he was agreeable to me, and had my confidence. There 
can be no doubt, but if he had been all that he seemed, I 
should have ended by loving- him in a quiet and constant 
way. As it was, the shock I felt at the discovery of his 
perfidy was terrible. 

"My ears were yet tingling with my new name, when, 
everybody having gone, I sat down with Benton on my lap 
to have the pleasure of the few natural tears that women 
are bound to shed over their relinquished freedom. I was 
very soon aroused by a knock at the door, which opened to 
admit an old acquaintance, then residing in Vancouver, and 
a former suitor of mine. Almost the first thing he said 
was, ' I hear you have been getting married?' ' Yes,' I said, 
trying to laugh off" my embarrassment, 'I had to marry a 
man at last to get rid of them! ' 

"You made a poor selection, then," he returned, rather 
angrily. 

"His anger roused mine, for his tone was, as I thought, 
insolent, ' Do you think I should have done better to have 
taken you?' I asked, scornfull^^" 

"You would at least have got a man that the law could 
give you," he retorted, "and not another woman's hus- 
band.' 

"The charge seemed so enormous that I laughed in his 
face, attributing his conduct to jealous annoyance at my 
marriage. But something in his manner, in sj^ite of our 
mutual excitement, unsettled my confidence. He was not 
inventing this story; he evidently believed it himself. 
' For God's sake,' I entreated, ' if you have any proof of 
what you sa}'', give it me at once!' And then he went on to 
tell me that on the occasion of Mr. Seabrook's late visit to 
Vancouver, he had been recognized by an emigrant out 
from Ohio, who met and talked with him at the Hudson's 
Bay store. That man had told him, my informant, that he 



36 THE yjjw ]>kx elope. 

Avas well iic(iu!iiiite(l with the family of INIr. Seahroolc, and 
that his wife ami several chihlreii were living- when he left 
Ohio. 

"Can you bring this man to me?" I asked, tremhling- 
with horrible apprehensions. 

"I don't know as I could," said he; "for he went, I 
think, over to the Sound to look up a place. But I can 
give you the name of the town he came from, if that would 
be of any use." I had him write the address for me, as I 
was jiowerless to do it for myself. 

" I am sorry for you," he said, as he handed me the slip 
of paper; "that is, if you care anything for the rascal." 

" Tliank 3'ou," I returned, " but this thing is not proven 
j-et. If 3'ou really mean well by me, keep what you have 
told me to yourself." 

"You mean to live with him?" he asked. 

"I don't know what I shall do; I must have time to 
think." 

"Very Avell; it is no affair of mine. I don't want a l)ul- 
let through my head for interfering; but I thought it was 
no more than fair to let 3'ou know." 

" I am very grateful, of course; — I mean I am if there is 
any occasion; but this story is so strange, and has come upon 
me so suddenly that I cannot take it all in at once, with 
all its consequences." 

" ' I know what you think,' he said finally: ' You susj^ect 
me of making up this thing to be revenged on you for pre- 
ferring Seabrook to me. I'd be a damned mean cuss, to 
do such a turn by auy woman, would'nt I? As to conse- 
quences, if the story is true, and I believe it is, wh}' yoiir 
marriage amounts to nothing, and you are just as free as 
you were before!' 

' ' I fancied his face brightened up with the idea of my free- 
dom, and a doubt of his veracity intruded upon \\\y grow- 
ing conviction. Distracted, excited, j^ressed down with 
cares and fears, I still had to attend to my daily tasks. I 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 37 

'begged him to go awa}', aud not to say a word to any other 
mortal about what he had tokl me; and he gave me the 
promise I desired. That was a fatal error, and fearfully 
was I punished." 

" How an error? It seems to me quite remarkable pru- 
dence for one in your situation." 

" So I thought then; but the event proved differently." 

"Pray do tell me how you bore up under all this excite- 
ment, and the care and labor of a boarding-house ? The 
more I know of your life, the more surprised I am at your 
endurance." 

"It was the care and labor that saved me, perhaps. At 
all events, here I am, alive and well, to-night. I some- 
times liken myself to a tree that I know of. It was a small 
fir tree in a friend's garden. For some reason, it began to 
pine and dwindle and turn red. My friend's husband in- 
sisted on cvitting it down, as unsightly; but this she ob- 
jected to, until all the leaves were dry and faded, and the 
tree apparently dead. Still she asked for it to be spared 
for another season; and, taking a stick, she beat the tree all 
over until not a leaf was left on a single bough; and there 
it stood, a mere frame of dry branches, until everj'body 
wished it out of the way. But behold! at last it was cov- 
ered with little green dots of leaves, that rapidly grew to 
the usual size, and now that tree is the thriftiest in my 
friend's garden, and a living evidence of the uses of adver- 
sity. But for the beating it got, it would now be a dead 
tree! I had my child to live and work for; and really, but 
for this last trouble, I should have thought myself doing- 
well. I had found out how I could make and lay up money, 
and was gaining that sense of independence such knowl- 
edge gives. Besides, I was young, and in good physical 
health most of the time before this last and worst stroke of 
fortune. Thai broke down my powers of resistance in some 
directions, I had so much to resist in others." 

" Do you see what o'clock it is V " I asked. 



38 '/'///■-■ y/--'^^' I'EXELOPE. 

" Yes; but if you do uot mind the sitting up, let's make 
a iiif^lit of it. I feel as if I could not sleep — as if some- 
tbing- were going to happen." 

Very cheerfully I consented to the proposed vigil. I 
wanted to hear the rest of the story; and I knew she had a 
sort of prophetic consciousness of coming events. If she 
said "something was going to happen," soinetliing surely 
did happen. So the fire was renewed, and we settled our- 
selves again for " a night of it." 

" What did you do? and why do you say that yoii com- 
mitted a fatal error by keeping silence ?" 

"By suffering the matter to rest, I unfortunately fixed 
myself in the situation I would have avoided. My object 
was Avhat yours would have been, or any woman's — to save 
all scandal, until the facts M'ere known to a certainty. I 
w'as so sensitive aljout being talked over ; and besides felt 
that I had no right to expose Mr. Seabrook to a slanderous 
accusation. It was not possible for me to have foreseen 
what actually happened. 

" I took one night to think the matter over. It was a 
longer night than this one will seem to you. My decision 
was to write to the postmaster of the town from which Mr, 
Seabrook was said to come. Now that would be a simple 
affair enough ; the telegraph would procure us the infor- 
mation wanted in a day. TJien a letter w'as five or six 
months going and coming. In the meantime I had re- 
solved not to live with Mr. Seabrook as his wife; but you 
will see how I Avould, under the circumstances, be com- 
pelled to seem to do so. I did not think of that at first, 
however. You know how you mentally go over inipending 
scenes beforehand? I meant to surprise him into a con- 
fession, if he were guilty; and believed I should be able to 
judge of his innocence, if he should be wrongly accused. 
I wrote and dispatched my letter at once, and under an as- 
sumed name, to prevent its being stolen. When that was 
done I tried to rest unconcerned ; but, of course, that Avas 
impossible. My mind ran on this subject day and night. 



THE NEW r EN ELOPE. 39 

" The difficiiltiesof my position could never be imagined; 
you would have to he in the same place to see them. Every- 
body now called me Mrs. Seabrook, and I could not repu- 
diate the name without sufficient cause. I was forced to 
appear to have confidence in the man I had married of my 
own free will. Besides, I really did not know, of a verity, 
that he was not worthy of confidence. It seemed quite as 
credible that another man should invent a lie, as that Mr. 
Seabrook should be guilty of an enormous crime. 

" Naturallj^ I had a buoyant temper; was inclined to see 
the amusing- side of things; enjoj-ed frolicsome conversa- 
tion; and in a general way was well fitted to bearuj) under 
worries, and recover quickly from depressed conditions. 
The gentlemeia who boarded with me were a cheerful and 
intelligent set, whose conversation entertained me, as the}- 
met three times a day at table. They were all friends of 
Mr. Seabrook, which gave them the pri^ileg•e of saying- 
playful things to me about him daily. To these remarks I 
must make equally playful replies, or seem ungracious to 
them. You will see how every such circumstance compli- 
cated my difficulties afterwards. 

"You know, too, how pliable we all are at twenty-three 
— how often our opinions waver and our emotions change. 
I was particularly mercurial in my temperament before the 
events I am relating hardened me. I often laid in a half- 
waking state almost all night, my imagination full of horri- 
ble images; and when breakfast-time came, and I listened to 
an hour of entertaining talk, with frequent respectful allu- 
sions to Mr. Seabrook, and kindly compliments to myself, 
these ugly visions took flight, while I persuaded myself that 
everything would come out right in the end. 

" A little while ago you asked me if I did not love Mr. 
Seabrook at all ? — did not long for tenderness from him ? 
The question roused something of the Avickedness in me 
that I confessed to you before; but I will answer the in- 
quiry now, by asking you if you think any woman in her 



40 THE XEW PENELOPE. 

twenties is quite reconciled to livennloved? I luxd not 
wished to marry again; yet undoubtedly there was a j^reat 
blank in ni}' life, which my pecnliarl}^ friendless condition 
made me very sensible of; and there icaa a yearning desire 
in my heart to be petted and cared for, as in my brief mar- 
ried life I had been. But the coarseness and intrusiveness 
I had experienced in my widowhood had made me as irri- 
table as the 'fretful porcupine' towards that class of men. 
The thought of Mr. Seabrook loving me hatl never taken 
root in m}^ mind. Even when he proposed marriage, it 
had seemed much more a matter of expediency than of love. 
But when, after I had accepted him as an avowed lover, 
his conduct had continued to be unintrusive, and delicateh' 
flattering to my womanly pride, it was most natural that I 
should begin to congratulate myself on the prospect before 
me of life-long protection from such wounds as I had re- 
ceived, with the great satisfaction of increased dignity in 
point of social position; for then, much more than now, 
and in a new country more than in an old one, a woman's 
position depended on her relationship to men; the wife 
of the most worthless man being the superior of an un- 
married woman. Accordingly I felt my promised import- 
ance, and began to exult in it." 

"In short, you were preparing to become much ]nore 
subject to the second love than the first; a not infrequent 
experience," I interrupted. "You certainly must have 
loved a handsome, agreeable, courteous, and manly man, 
who would have interjiosed between you aJid the rude 
shocks of the world; and you had begun to realize that 
3'ou could, in spite of your first love?" 

" And to have a feeling of disappointment when the pos- 
sibility presented itself that after all these blessings might 
be wrested from me; of horror when I reflected that in that 
case my last estate would be inexpressibly worse than the 
first." 

"There was a terrible temptation there!" 



THE NEW PEXELOrE. 41 

"No; that was the oue thing I was perfectly clear about. 
Not to be dragged into crime or deserved disgrace, I was 
determined upon. How I should avoid it was where I was 
in doubt." 

"I am very anxious to know how you met him on his 
return." 

" There was no one in the house except myself, and Ben- 
ton, who was now quite well again for the time. I was 
standing by the dining-room window, arranging some ferns 
in a hanging basket, and Benton was amnsing himself with 
toys the boarders were alwa^'s giving him. I heard a foot- 
step, and turned my head slightl}' to see who it Avas, Mr. 
Seabrook stood in the door, regarding us with a pleased 
smile. 

" How is my wife and boy ? " he said, cheerily, advancing 
towards me, and proffering a kiss of greeting. 

" I put up my hand to ward him off, and ni}' heart stood 
motionless. I seemed to be struck with a chill. My teeth 
chattered together, while the ends of my fingers turned 
cold at once. 

"Naturally, he was surprised; but thinking perhaps that 
the suddenness of his return, under the circumstances, had 
overcome me, he quickly recovered his tenderness of man- 
ner. 

" 'Have I frightened you, m}^ darling?' he asked, put- 
ting out his arms to fold me to his breast. Not being able 
to speak, I whirled round rapidly, and hastened to place 
the table between us. Of course, he could not comprehend 
such conduct, but thought it some nervous freak, probably. 

" Turning to Benton, he took him up in his arms and 
kissed him, asking him some questions about himself and 
toys. ' Could you tell me what is the matter with your 
mamma, Bennie?' he asked, seeing that m^' manner re- 
mained inexplicable. 

" ' I tink see has a till,' answered Benton, who by this 
time knew the meaning of the word ' chill ' by experience. 



42 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

" ' She lias given me one, T kuoAV,' said Mr. Sealn-ook, 
reg'anliiig me curiously. I began to feel faint, and sat 
down, leaning my head on my liand, m}' elbow on the 
table. 

" ' Anna,' said he, addressing me by my Christian name 
for the lirst time, and giving me a little shock in conse- 
quence — for I had almost forgotten I had ever been called 
'Anna' — 'if I am so disagreeable to you, I "will go away 
a;^'ain; tliough I certainly had reason to expect a difTerent 
reception.' 

" ' No,' I said, suddenly rousing up; 'you must not go 
until I have told you something; unless you go to stay — 
which would perhaps be best.' 

" ' To stay! go to staj'? There seems great need of ex- 
planation here. Will you be good enough to tell me wb}' 
I am to go awa,y to stay ? ' 

" ' The reason is, Mr. Seabrook,' I answered, ' that your 
true wife, and your own children expect you at home, in 
Ohio.' 

" I had worded my answer with the intention of shock- 
ing the truth out of him, if possible. If he should be in- 
nocent, I thought, he would forgive me. There was too 
much at stake to stand upon niceties of speech; and I 
watched him narrowly." 

" How did he receive such a blow as that? I am curious 
to know how guilty people act, on being accused." 

"You cannot tell an innocent from a guilty person," 
Mrs. Greyfield returned, with a touch of that asperity that 
was sometimes noticeable in her utterances. Then, more 
quietly: " Both are shocked alike at being accused; one be- 
cause he is innocent; the other, because he is guiltj-. How 
much a person is shocked dejjends upon temperament and 
circumstance. The guilty person, always consciously in 
danger of being accused, is likely to be j^repared and on 
the defensive, while the other is not. 

" AVhat Mr. Seabrook did, was to turn ujion me a look 



THE XEW PEXELOPE. 43 

of keen observation, not unmixed with surprise. It might 
mean one thing; it might mean another; how could I tell? 
He always impressed me so with his superiority that even 
in that moment, when my honor and life's happiness were 
at stake, I was conscious of a feeling of abasement and 
guiltiness that I dare accuse him to his face. Perhaps, he 
saw that I Avas frightened at my own temerity; at all events 
he was not thrown off his guard. 

" ' Do I understand you to charge me with crime — a ver}" 
ugly crime, indeed?' he asked pointedly. 

" 'You know/ I said, ' whether you are guilty. If you 
are, may God so deal with you as you have meant to deal 
with me.' 

" I fancied that he winced slightly at this; but in my ex- 
citement could not have seen very clearly. He knitted his 
brows, and took several turns up and down the room. 

" ' If I kue'w who had put this monstrous idea into your 
mind," he finall}- said with vehemence; ' I would send a 
bullet through his heart!' 

" ' In that case,' I replied: ' you could not exjiect me to 
tell you;' and I afterwards made that threat my excuse for 
concealing the name of my informant. 

" Mr. Seabrook continued to pace the floor in an excited 
manner, stroking his long blonde beard rapidly and uncon- 
sciously. I still sat by the table, trying to appear the calm 
observer that I was not. He came and stood by me, say- 
ing : ' Do you believe this thing against me ? ' 

" ' I do not know what to believe, Mr. Seabrook,' I re- 
plied, ' but something will have to be done about this 
rumor." I could not bear to go on; but he understood me. 
He leaned over my chair, and touched my cheek with his: 

" ' Are you my wife, or not?' he asked. I shuddered, and 
put my face down on my hands. He knelt by my side, and 
taking my hands in his, so that my face must be seen, 
asked me to look into his eyes and listen to him. "What he 
said, was this: 



44 THE NEW I'EyELol'E. 

" ' If I swear to you, by Almighty God, that yon arc my 
true and only wife, will you then helieve me?'" 

INIrs. Greyfield was becoming visibl}' agitated by these 
reminiscences, and paused to collect herself. 

"You dared not say 'yes,' I cried, carried awa}' with 
synii^athy, and yet, you could not say ' no.' AVhat did 
you do? " 

" I burst into a passion of tears, and cried convulsively. 
He would have caressed and consoled me, but I would 
have none of it. 

"'Anna, what a strange home-coming for a bride- 
groom!' he said, reproachfully. 

" ' Go away, and leave me to myself," I entreated; 'You 
must not stay here.' 

" ' AVhat madness?' he exclaimed. 'Do you wish to set 
everybody to talking about us?' Ah! 'talking about us,' 
was the bugbear I most dreaded, and he knew it. But I 
wanted to seem brave; so I said that in private matters we 
were at liberty to do as we thought right and best. 

" ' And I think it right and best to stay where m}- wife 
is. Anna, what is to be the result of this strange suspic- 
ion of 3'ours, but to make us both unhappy, and me 
desperate ! "Why, I shall be the laughing-stock of the 
town — and I confess it is more than I can bear without 
flinching, to have it circulated about, that Seabrook mar- 
ried a Avife who cut him adrift the lirst thing she did. And 
then look at your position, too, which would be open to 
every unkind remark. You must not incur this almost 
certain ruin.' 

" ' ]Mr. Seabrook,' I said, more calmly than I had yet 
spoken; ' what you have said has suggested itself to me 
before. Stay here, then, if you must, until I can take 
measures to satisfy myself of the legality of our marriage. 
You can keep your own counsel, and I can keep mine. I 
have spoken to no one about this matter, nor will I for the 
present. There is your old room; your old place at the 



THE NEW r EX ELOPE. _ 45 

table. I will try to act as natural as i:)ossible; more than 
this yon must not expect of nie/ This business-like tone 
nettled him. 

" ' May I inquire, Mrs. Seabrook, how long a probation 
I may anticipate, and Avhat measures you intend taking to 
establish my good or bad character? A man may not be 
willing to wait always for a wife.' 

" ' Very well,' I replied to this covert threat; ' when 3'ou 
tire of waiting, you know what to do.' But my voice must 
have trembled, for he instantly changed his manner. There 
was more chance of winning me through my weakness than 
of intimidating me, coward though I was. 

" ' My dear Anna,' he said kindly, ' this is a most morti- 
fying and trying predicament tliat I am in ; and you must 
pardon me if I seem selfish. I do not know how I am to 
bear several months of this unnatural life you propose; 
and in thinking of myself I forget you. Yet your case, "as 
you see it, is harder than mine; and I ought to pity and 
comfort you. If my darling would only let me !' He 
stretched out his arms to me. It was all I could do to 
keep from rushing into them, and sobbing on his breast. 
I was so tempest-tossed and wear}' ! — what would I not 
have given to lay down my burdens ?" 

" That is where the unrecognized heroism of women 
comes in. How^ few men would suffer iu this way for the 
right ! Had you chosen to ignore the tale that 3'ou had 
heard, and taken this man whom fortune had thrown with 
you x\\)on this far-off" coast, he might have been to you a 
kind friend and protector. Do you not think so ?' 

"Very likely. Plenty of bad men, when deferred to, 
have made good husbands, as men go. But I, by resisting 
the will of one bad man, made infinite trouble for myself. 
Are you becoming wearied? " 

"No, no; go on."' 

"I must pass over a great deal; and, thank God! some 
things have been forgotten. Mr. Seabrook took his old 



46 THE NEW pexkuu'e. 

room down stairs. As before, lie sat at the foot of the 
table aiul carved, but now as master of the house. Servants 
not being- easily obtained, it was not remarked that my 
duties prevented my sitting- down with my supjiosed hus- 
band at meals. He marketed for me, and received the 
mone}' of my boarders when pay-day came; and at first lie 
did — what he failed to do afterwards^pay the money over 
to me. 

" You are curious to know how Mr. Seabrook conducted 
himself toward me jiersonally, and in particular. For a 
few days, well; so that I began to feel confidence that so 
honorable a gentleman would be proved free from all stain. 
But he soon began to annoy me with the most persistent 
courtship, looking, as I could see, to breaking- down my 
reserve, and subjecting me to the domination of a passion 
for him. If I had ever really loved Mr. Seabrook, it would 
have been a love of the senses, of interest, of the under- 
standing, and not of the imagination and heart. I was 
just on the eve of such a love when it was fortunately jiut 
in check by my suspicions. For him to endeavor to create 
a feeliug- now that might, nay, that was intended to subvert 
principle and virtue, appeared even to my small Avorldly 
sense, an insult and an outrage. 

" "When I talked in this way to him, he half laughingly 
and half in earnest always declared that I should get into 
the habit of forgetting- our marriage before my ' proofs' 
came from Ohio, unless he every day put me in mind of it! 
and this willingness to refer to ' proofs' threw me off my 
guard a little. He designed very cunningly, but not quite 
cunningly enough. As time wore on and he feared the 
proofs might come before he had bent me to his will, his at- 
tempts lost even the semblance of love or decencj'. Many 
and many a night I feared to close my eyes in sleep, lest 
he should carry out his avowed purpose; for locks and bolts 
in a house in those days were considered unnecessary, and 
I improvised such defenses as I could. I used to threaten 



THE NEW rENELOPE. 47 

to call in my little German neighbor, to "wliicli lie replied 
she Avoukl probably recognize a man's right to occupy the 
same apartment with his wife! Still, I think he was de- 
terred somewhat by the fear of exj^osure from using vio- 
lence." 

The recital of such sufferings and anxieties as these; en- 
dured, too, by a young and lonel}^ woman, affected me 
jDowerfully. My excited imagination was engaged in com- 
paring the Mrs. Greyfield I saw before me, wearing her 
nearly fifty years with dignity and grace, full of a calm and 
ripe exj)erience, still possessing a dark and striking beauty, 
Avith the picture she had given me of herself at twenfc}'- 
three. What a wonder it w^as that with her lively- tempera- 
ment either for pain or pleasure; with her beauty and her 
helj^lessness, she had come out of the furnace unscathed, 
as she now appeared. 

" How could 3'ou," I said, w'ith a feeling of deep disgust, 
"how could you allow such a man to remain in your house?"' 

"How could I get him out? We were legally married, 
so far as anybody in Oregon knew, except himself. Every- 
body presumed us to be living amicably together. He w^as 
careful to act the courteous gentleman to me in the pres- 
ence of others. If we never went out together, it was easily 
exj^lained by reference to my numerous household cares, 
and Benton's frequent illness. As I before said, no one 
could understand the position who had not been in it. I 
could not send him away from me; nor could I go away 
from him. He would have folloAved me, he said, to the 
'ends of the earth.' Besides, where could I go? There 
Avas nothing for me but to endure until the answer to my 
letter came. Never was letter .so anxiously desired as that 
one; for, of course, I fully expected that whatever news it 
contained, w'ould bring relief in some waj'. But I had 
made up my mind to his guilt, rightly judging that, had he 
been innocent, he woukl either have found means to satisfy 
me, or have gone away and left me altogether. 



48 THE NEW VENELOTE. _ 

"II liad heen six or seven months since my mavriafte. 
I had a hiri;e family of boarders to cook for, and IJenton 
ffivin<j: me a great deal of Avorr^', fearing I shouhl lose him. 
AVorking liard all day, and sleeping very little nights, with 
constant excitement and dread, had very much impaired 
my health. INI}^ boarders of ten said tome: 'Mrs. Seabropk, 
you are working too hard; you must make ]Mr. Seabrook 
get you a cook.' What couhl I say in return, except to 
force a smile, and turn the drift of tlie conversation? Once, 
carried away with indignation, I replied that ' Air. Hea- 
brook found it as much as lie could do to collect the money 
I earned!" " 

"And you were set down at once as a vixen!" I said, 
smiling. 

" Well, they were not expected to know how matters 
stood, when I had taken so much j)ain to conceal the truth. 
I was sorry I had not held my peace a little longer, or alto- 
gether. Men never can understand a woman's right to 
resent selfishness, however atrocious; even when they are 
knowing to it, which in this case thej'' were not. I might 
as well have held my tongue, since every unguarded speech 
of mine militated against me afterwards." 

" You allowed Mr. Seabrook to have fill your earnings?" 
"I could not prevent it; he was my husband. Sometimes 
I thought he meant to save up all he could, to take him out 
of the country, when the hoped-for proofs of his crime 
should arrive. And in that light I was inclined to rejoice 
in his avarice. I would have given all I had for that pur- 
jjose. Oh, those dreatlful, dreadful days! when I was so 
near insane with sleeplessness and anxiety, that I seemed 
to be walking on the air! Such, indeed, was my mental 
and physical condition, that everything seemed unreal, 
even myself; and it surprises me now that my reason did 
not give wa}'." 

" Did YOU never pra}'?" 

"My training had been religious, and I had always 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 49 

praj-ed. This, I felt, entitled me to help; and yet help did 
not come. I felt forsalceu of God, and sullenly shut ni}- 
lijis to prayer or complaint. All severel}- tried souls go 
througli a similar experience. Christ himself cried out: 
' My God, my God, why hast ihow forsalcen me! ' 

" No wonder you felt forsaken, indeed." 

"You think I was as tried as I could be then, when I 
had a hope of escape; but worse came after that — worse, 
because more hopeless." 

"You were really married to him then?" I cried in 
alarm: "I thought you told me in the beginning, that you 
were not." 

" Neither was I; but that did not release me. When at 
last I received an answer to my inquiries, confirming the 
statement of the immigrant from Ohio, it was too late." 

"You do not mean!" — I interrupted, in a frightened 
voice. 

"No, no! I only mean that I had committed a great 
error, in keeping silence on the subject at the first. You 
can imagine one of your acquaintances Avho had been sev- 
eral months peaceably living with a man of good appear- 
ance and repute, to whom you had seen her married, sud- 
denly declaring her husband a bigamist and refusing to 
live with him; and on no other evidence than a letter ob- 
tained, nobody knew how. To me the proof was conclu- 
sive; and it made me frantic to find that it was not so re- 
ceived by others " 

""What did he say, when you told him that you had this 
evidence ? How did he act ? " 

"He swore it was a conspiracy; and declared that now 
he had borne enough of such contumelious conduct; he 
should soon bring me into subjection. He represented 
himself to me, as an injured and long-suffering man; and 
me, to myself, as an unkind, undutiful, and most unwo- 
manly woman. He told me, what was true, that I need not 
expect people to believe such a 'cock and bull story;' and 
4 



50 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

used eveiy possible means of intimitlation, except actual 
corporeal puuishment. lliai he tlireateued long after; and 
I told him if he ever laid a finger on me, I should certainly 
shoot him dead. But Ave liad not come to that yet." 

"Long after!" I repeated. "You do not, you cannot 
mean that this wretch continued to live under the same roof 
with you, long after he knew that 30U would never acknowl- 
edge him as your husband ? " 

"Yes, for years! For years after he knew that I knew 
he Avas xchat he ivas, he lived in my house and took mj' 
earnings; yes, and ordered me about and insulted me as 
much as he liked." 

"But," I said, "I cannot understand such a condition 
of things. "NYas there no law in the land? no succor in the 
society about you V How could other women hold still, and 
know that a young creature like you was being tortured in 
that way ? " 

"The inertia of women in each other's defense is im- 
mense," returned Mrs. Greyfield, in her most incisive tone. 
" You must not forget that Portland was then almost a 
wilderness, and families wei'e few, and often 'far between.' 
Among the few, my acquaintances were still fewer; for I 
had come among them poor and alone, and with all I could 
do to support myself, without time or disposition to visit. 
The peculiar circumstances I have related to you broke my 
spirit and inclined me to seclusion. However, I did carry 
my evidence, and my story together, to two or three women 
that I knew, and what do you suj^i^ose the}' said ? That I 
' should have thought of all that before I married!' The}- 
treated it exactly as if, having gone through the marriage 
ceremony, I was bound, no matter how many wives Mr. 
Seabrook had back in Ohio." 

"They could not have believed your story," I said; not 
being able to take in such inferior morality. 

" ^Yhat they believed I do not know: what they said I 
have told you. I incline to the opinion that they thought 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 51 

I might be a little daft — I am sure I must have looked so at 
times, from sheer sleeplessness and exhaustion. Or they 
thought I had no chance of establishing the truth, and 
would be better off to submit quietly. At all events, not 
one encouraged me to resist Mr. Seabrook; and to overflow 
my cuji of misery, he contrived to find the important letter, 
which I had hidden, and destroy it." 

"Did you never go to men about your case, and ask for 
assistance ? " 

"At first I was afraid to appeal to them, having had so 
many unpleasant experiences; and when I at last was 
driven to seek counsel, I was too late, as I before explained." 

"Too late?" 

"Yes; I mean that the idea of my being Mr. Seabrook's 
wife was so firmly seated in their minds that they could not 
see it in any other light. The fact of my having written 
and received a letter did not impress them as of any con- 
sequence. You will find this to be a truth among men; 
they respect the sense of ownership in women, entertained 
by each other; and they respect it so much that they would 
as soon be caught stealing, as seeming in any way to intei-- 
fere with it. That is the reason that, although there is 
nothing in the wording of the marriage contract converting 
the woman into a bond-slave or a chattel, the man who 
practices any outrage or wrong on his wife is so seldom 
called to account. In the eyes of these men, having en- 
tered into marriage with Mr. Seabrook, I belonged to him, 
and there was no helj) for me. For life and until death, I 
was his, to do what he pleased with, so long as he did not 
bruise my flesh nor break my bones. Is not that an awful 
power to be lodged with any human being ? " 

"But," I said, "if they were told the whole truth, that 
the marriage had never been consummated, and why, would 
they not have been moved by a feeling of chivalry to inter- 
fere? Your view of their sentiments pre-supposes the non- 
existence of what I should call chivalry.'" 



52 TIIK X ]■:]]' I'KX ELOPE. 

" There may be in men sueli a sentiment as you -would 
call eliivalrv; but I never yet have seen the occasion where 
they were pleased to exercise it. I would not advise any 
other young w'oman to tell one of them that she had lived 
alone in the same house with a man rei^uted to be her hus- 
band, for seven months, without the marriage having been 
consummated. She would find, as I did, that his chivalry 
would be exhibited by an ineffectual effort to suppress a 
smile of incredulity." 

"Can it be possible," I was forced to exclaim, "that 
there was no help for you?" 

"You see how it was. I have outlined the bare facts to 
you. Nobody wanted to be mixed up in my troubles, and 
the worst of it was that ^Mr. Seabroolc got more symj^athy 
than I did, as the unfortunate husband of a terrible terma- 
gant, who made his life a burden to him. He could talk 
in a certain way around among men, and put on an aggrieved 
air at home before the boarders, and what was the use of 
my saying anything. If it had not been for my little Ger- 
man neighbor, I should have felt utterly forsaken by all 
the world. But she, whatever she thought of my domestic 
affairs, was sorry for me. ' "What for you cry so much all 
de time?' she said to me one da}', 'You makes yourself 
sick all de time mit cryin'; an' your face be gettiu' wite as 
my haukershif. De leedle boy, too, he sees you, an' he 
gets all so "svite as you are, all de same. Dat is not goot. 
You gomes to see me, an' brings de boy to see my Hans. 
You get sheered up den.' And I took her advice for Ben- 
ton's sake." 

" What object had Mr. Seabrook in remaining wliere he 
vv^as so unwelcome? He certainly entertained no hope that 
you Avould finally yield; and his position could not have 
been an agreeable one, from any point of view; for whether 
he was regarded as the monster he was, or only as a sadly 
beshrewed husband, he must have felt himself the subject 
of unpleasant remark." 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 53 

" He coiikl afford to be remarked upon when he was a 
free pensioner upon a "woman's bounty, and in receipt of a 
fine income which I earned for him by ceaseless toil. I can 
see him now sitting at the bottom of the table, nij^ table, 
fiourisbing- his white hands, and stroking- his flowing blonde 
beard occasionally as something very gratifying to his 
vanity was said; talking and laughing with perfect uncon- 
cern, while he fattened himself at my expense; while I, who 
earned and prej^ared his dinner for him, gasped half faint- 
ing in the heat of a kitchen, sick in heart and bod3^ Do 
you wonder that I hated him '?" 

"I wonder more that you did not kill him," I said; feel- 
ing that this \Yould have been a case of 'justifiable homi- 
cide.' 

" The impulse certainly came to me at times to kill him; 
or if not exactly that, to wish him dead. Yet when the 
oppoi'tunity came to be revenged upon him by fate itself, 
I interfered to save him. That was strange, Avas it not? 
To be suflfering as I suffered at this man's hands, and yet 
when he was in peril to have compassion upon him ?" 

" You could not alter 3".our nature," I said, " which is, as 
I told 3'ou before, thoroughly sound and sweet. It goes 
against us to suffer Avroug; but it goes still harder with us 
to do wrong. Besides, you had your religious training to 
help 3'ou." 

" I had the temptation, all the same. It happened in 
this way: One night I was lying awake, as I usually did, 
until I heard Mr. Seabrook come in and go to his room. 
He came in rather later than usual, and I listened until all 
was still in the house, that I might sleep the more safel}^ 
and soundly afterwards. I had, however, become so nerv- 
ously wakeful by this time that the much needed and 
coveted sleep refused to visit me, and I laid tossing fever- 
ishly upon my bed when I became aware that there was a 
smell of fire in the air. Rapidly dressing, I took Benton 
in mv arms and hastened down stairs, to have him where 



54 THE NEW PEN ELOPE. 

I could save liiin, should the house be in danger. There 
was a still stronger odor of burning cloth and wood in the 
lower rooms, but very little smoke to be detected. After 
looking into the kitchen and finding all right there, I 
feared the fire might be in the other part of the bouse, and 
was about to give the alarm, when it occurred to me that 
the trouble might be in Mr. Seabrook's room. 

"Leaving Benton asleep on the dining-room table, I ran 
to his door and knocked. No answer came; but I could 
smell the smoke within. Pushing open the door I discov- 
ered him lying in a perfectly unconscious state, and half 
undressed, on the bed, sleeping off the effects of a wine 
supper, A candle which ho had lighted, and left burning, 
had consumed itself down to the socket, and b}^ some 
chance had ignited a few loose papers on the table beside 
the bed ; the fire had communicated to the bedding on one 
side, and to some of his wearing apparel on the other. 
All was just ready to burst into a blaze with the admission 
of fresh air, which I had the presence of mind to prevent, 
by closing the door behind me. 

" There I was, in the presence of my enemy, and he in 
the clutches of death. I shudder when I think of the feel- 
ings of that moment ! An evil spirit plainly said to me, 
' Now you shall have rest. Let him alone ; he is dying by 
his own hand, not yours — why do you interfere with the 
decree of fate ?' An exulting yet consciously guilty joy 
agitated my heart, which was beating violently. ' Let him 
die !' I said to myself, ' let him die !' 

"Very rapidly such thoughts whirl through the brain 
under great excitement. The instant that I hesitated 
seemed an age of cool deliberation to me. Then the wicked- 
ness of my self-gratulation rushed into ni}' mind, making me 
feel like a murderer. ' O, God,' I cried in anguish of spirit, 
' why have I been put to this test?' The next instant I was 
working with might and main to extinguish the fire, which 
with the aid of blankets and a pitcher of Avater Avas soon 
suppressed. 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 55 

" Through it all he slept on, breathing heavily, an object 
of disgust to my senses and my feelings. When all was 
safe I returned to my room, thankful that I had been able 
on the spot to expiate my murderous impulses. The next 
day he took occasion to say to me, ' I shouldn't have ex- 
pected a visit of mercy from you, Mrs. Seabrook. If I had 
kiiown 3'ou were coming, I should have tried to keep 
awake!' ' If ever you refer to such a subject again,' I re- 
plied, ' I will set fire to you myself, and let you burn;' and 
either the threat deterred him, or some spark of generosity 
in his nature was struck by the benefit received, but he 
never afterwards offered me any annoyance of that kind." 

" How did Mr. Seabrook usually treat your son? Was he 
kind to him?" 

"HeAvas not unkind. Perhaps you cannot understand 
such a character; but he was one who would be kind to 
man, woman, or child who would be governed by him; j'et 
resistance to his will, however just, roused a tyranny that 
sought for opportunities to exhibit itself. Such a one passes 
in general society for a ' good fellow,' because ' the iron 
hand in the velvet glove' is scarcely perceptible there, while 
its ungloved force is felt most heavilj' in the relations of 
private life. If I had been in a position to flatter Mr. Sea- 
brook, undoubtedly he would have shown me a correspond- 
ing consideration, notwithstanding his selfishness. It would 
have been one way of gratifying his OAvn vanity, b}' putting 
me in a humor to pander to it. But knowing how I hated 
and despised him, he felt toward me all the rancor of his 
vain and tyrannical nature. It is always more dangerous 
to hate justly than unjustly, and that is the reason wh}' 
domestic differences are so bitter. Somebody has always 
done wrong and knows it, and cannot bear to suffer the 
natural consequences — the disapprobation of the injured 
party, in addition to the stings of conscience." 

"I suppose, then," I said, "it has been the perception 
of this truth that has caused the sweetest and purest women 



56 THE XE]V PENELOPE. 

in all time to ignore the Laser sins of man, Avhilc calling* 
tlieir own sex to strict account. And yet I cannot think 
but that this degree of mere}" is injurious to their own 
purity and derogatory to their dignity. I remember be- 
ing excessively shocked several years ago by having this 
trait of /'orr/irenesH in woman placed in its true .light by 
an accidental publication in a New York paper, which was 
intended to have just the opposite effect. It was headed 
'A Model "Woman,' and appeared in the Evening Pout 
— Bryant's paper. AVith a curious desire to know the 
poet's model for a woman — though the article may have 
never come under his eye — I commenced reading it. It ran 
to this effect: A certain man in New York had a good wife 
and two interesting little children. But he met and fell in 
love with a handsome, dashing, and rather coarse girl; and 
the afltair had gone so far as to lead to serious expostulation 
on the part of the wife. The writer did not relate whether 
or not the girl knew the man to be married; but only that 
the two were infatuated with each other. 

"As the story ran, the wife expostulated, and the hus- 
band was firm in his determination to j^ossess the girl at 
all hazards, concluding his declaration with this business- 
like statement: 'I shall take the girl, and go to California. 
If you keep quiet about it, I will leave a provision for you 
and the children; if you do not, I shall go just the same, 
but without leaving yow anything.' The wife anjuieHced in 
the terms. Her husband went to California with his para- 
mour, and tired of her (it was in old steamer times), aV)Out 
as soon as he got there. Very soon he deserted her and 
returned to New York a la prodigal, and was received back 
to the arms of his forgiving M-ife. The girl followed her 
faithless lover to New York, and failing to win a kind word 
from him by the most piteous appeals, finally committed 
suicide at her hotel in that city. The wife continued to 
live with the author of this misery ujDon the most ali'ec- 
tionate terms. 



THE NEW TEN ELOPE. 57 

"That was the whole story. Is it possible, I asked my- 
self, that tlie writer of that article, whoever he may be, 
could have meant its title in anything- hut irony? Yet, 
there it stood on the front page of a most respectable jour- 
nal, indorsed by an editor of the highest re2:)utation. To 
my way of thinking, the wife was accessory to the crime; 
had no womanly self-respect, no delicac}-, no Christian feel- 
ing for her husband's victim; Avas, in short, morally, as 
guilty as he was; and yet a newspaper of high standing- 
made her out to be a model for Avives. For what? Plainly 
for consenting to, or for forgiving three of the most heinous 
crimes in the decalogue, because committed byherhvi^band. 
I confess that since that day I have been prone to examine 
into the claims of men to be forgiven, or the moral right of 
women to forgive them certain oflenses." 

"When 3'ou examine into the motives of Avomen," said 
Mrs. Greyfield, " I think you Avill find there is a large 
measure of sordid self-interest in their mercy, as in the case 
you have just quoted. While some Avomen are so Aveak, 
and so foolishly fond of the men to Avliom they became 
early attached, as to be Avilling to oA-erlook everything rather 
than part with them; a far greater number yield an un- 
Avilling submission to Avi'ongs imposed upon them, simply 
because they do not know hoAV to do without the pecuniary 
support aftbrded them by their husbands. The bread-and- 
butter question is demoralizing to Avomen as Avell as to men, 
the dift'erence being that men have a AA'ider field to be de- 
moralized in; and that the demoralization of Avomen is 
greatly consequent upon their circumscribed field of ac- 
tion." 

"Do you think that the enlargement of woman's sphere 
of Avork would have a tendency to elevate her moral influ- 
ence ? " 

" The Avay the subject presents itself to me is, that it is 
degrading to have sex determine everything for us: our em- 
ployments, our position in society, the obedience Ave OAve 



58 THE NEW PENELOI'E. 

to others, the influence we are permitted to exercise, all 
and overyfliiiinf to he do])endeut upon the delicate matter of 
a merely physical function. It affects me so unpleasantly 
to hear such frequent reference to a jthysiological fact, that 
I have often wished the "word female stricken from our lit- 
erature. And when you reflect, that we are born and bred 
to this narrow view of ourselves, as altogether the creatures 
of sex, 5'ou cannot but recognize its belittleing, not to say 
depraving effect, or fail to see the temptation; we have to 
seize any base advantage it may give us." 

When w'e had canvassed this, to us interesting, topic a 
little further, I begged Mrs. Greyfield to go on with the 
relation of her history. 

" I tind I must be less particular," she said, " to give so 
many and frequent explanations of my feelings. B3' this 
time you can pretty well imagine them, and my story is 
likely to be too long, unless I abbreviate. 

" I had been living in the way I have described, for tw^o 
years, and had learned to do a good many things in my 
own defence, very disagreeable to me, but nevertheless very 
useful. I had gotten a little money together by asking some 
of my boarders for pay before pa^'-day came, or by mak- 
ing such remarks as prompted them to hantl the money to 
me instead of Mr. Seabrook. It was my intention to save 
enough in such ways to take me to California, where I felt 
confident, with the experience I had gained, I should be 
able to make myself a competence. This plan I had nour- 
ished in secret for more than a yeai", when I was tempted 
to do a very unwise thing. 

"I ought to say, jjerhaps, that with every year that had 
i:)assed since my arrival in Portland, the population had 
increased, and with this increase there was a proportionate 
rise in the value of proj^erty. Hearing business topics dis- 
cussed almost every day at table, I could not help being 
more or less infected with the sjjirit of speculation; and it 
often almost drove me wild to think how profitably I might 



THE NEW rEN ELOPE. 59 

have invested vay earuiugs could I Lave gained possession 
of them for myself. 

" Having- an opportunity one day to speak on the subject 
to a gentleman in whose honor I placed great confidejice, 
I mentioned that I was tempted to buy some property, but 
that my means were so limited I feared I could not do so. 
He immediately said that he would sell me a certain very 
good piece of land in the best business locality, on the in- 
stallment plan, and at a bargain, so that when it was paid 
ujD I could immediately sell again at an advance. Think- 
ing this would accelerate the carrying out of my scheme of 
fleeing from my master, to a land of freedom, I eagerly ac- 
cepted the proposition, and paid down all the money I had, 
taking a bond for a deed. The transaction was to be kept 
a secret between us, and he was to assist me in selling when 
it came the proper time, by deeding direct to my purchaser. 
I felt ahuost light-hearted in view of the fact that I should 
be able, after all, to achieve a kind of independence in the 
course of time." 

"It seems to me," I said, " that I should have grown 
reckless before this, and have done, something of a des- 
perate nature — committed suicide, for instance. Did the 
thought never occur to you to end your bondage in that 
way ? " 

" My desperation never took that form, because I had my 
child to take care of. If I killed myself, I should have to 
kill him, too. But many and many a night I have felt it so 
impossible to be alive in the morning, and go right on in 
my miserable round of life, worn out in mind and body, 
with Benton ahvays ailing — often very ill, that I have pre- 
pared both myself and him for burial, and laid down pray- 
ing God to take us both before another day. But Death is 
like our other friends — he is not at hand to do us a service 
when most desired. 

" I have told you that I used to cry a good deal. Weep- 
ing, though a relief to us in one way, by removing the 



GO THE XEW PENELOPE. 

pressure upon the brain, is terribly exhausting- when excep- 
sive, and I was verv much wasted by it. An incident oc- 
curred about the time I was just speaking of, which gave 
me comi'ort in a strange manner. I used sometimes, when 
my work for the day Avas done, to leave Benton with my 
German friend, and go out for a walk, or to call on an ac- 
quaintance. All the sights and sounds of nature are beaii- 
tiful and beneficial to me in a remarkable degree. "With 
trees and flowers and animals, I am happy and at home. 

" One evening I set out to make a visit to Mrs. , m^- 

old neighbor, who lived at some distance from me. The 
path led through the fir forest, and at the time of day when 
I was at liberty, was dim and gloomy. I walked hurriedly 
along, fearing darkness would overtake me; and looking 
about me as I went, was snatching a hasty pleasure from 
the contemplation of Nature's beneficence, when my foot 
caught in a projecting root of some tough shrub, and I fell 
prostrate. 

"In good health and spirits I should not have minded 
the fall; but to me, in my weak condition, every jur to the 
nervous system afiected me seriously. I rose with diffi- 
cult}', and seating myself upon a fallen trea, burst into 
tears, and wept violently. It seemed as if even the sticks 
and stones were in league to injure me. Looking back 
upon m}' feelings, I can understand how man, in the in- 
fancy of the race, attributed jjower and will to ever^-thing 
in Nature. In his weakness and inexperience. Nature was 
too strong for him, and bruised him continually. 

"As I sat weeping with pain and an impotent resent- 
ment, a clear sweet voice spoke to me out of the dusky 
twilight of the woods. ' Dotit cry .so muclt !' it said. 
Astonishment dried my tears instantly. I looked about 
me, but no one was near ; nor vluj sound to be heard, but 
the peculiar cry of a bird that makes itself heard in the 
Oregon woods at twilight only. A calm that I cannot 
explain came over my perturbed spirit. It was like the 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 61 

lieaveiil}' voices beard npou the earth thousands of years 
ago, in its power to move the heart. It may make you 
smile for me to sa}' so; but from that hour I regained 
a degree of cheerfulness that I had not felt since the day 
of my marriage to Mr. Seabrook. I did not go to Mrs. 

's that evening, but returned home and went to my 

bed without putting on clothes to be buried in! " 

We talked for a little of well attested instances of sim- 
ilar incidents of the seeming supernatural. Then I said: 

" And how did your investment turn out ? " 

" As might have been expected by a more worldly-wise 
person. After succeeding, almost, I was defeated by the 
selfishness and indifterence of the man I had trusted to help 
me through with it. He sold out his property, including 
that bonded, to me, when nearly the whole indebtedness was 
paid, without mentioning his design, or giving mean op- 
portunity to complete the purchase. The new proprietor 
went immediately to Mr. Seabrook, who, delighted with 
this unexj^ected piece of fortune, borrowed the small 
amount remaining to be paid, and had the propei'ty deeded 
to himself. A short time after he sold it at a handsome 
advance on the price I j^aid for it, and I had never one dol- 
lar of the money. The entire savings of the whole time I 
had been in a really profitable business, went with that un- 
lucky venture." 

" You were just as far from getting to California as ever? 
O, what outrageous abuse of the power society gives men 
over women!" I exclaimed with vehemence. 

"You may imagine I was bitterly disaj^pointed. The 
lesson was a hard one, but salutary. I took no more disin- 
terested advice; I bought no more propert}'. There are 
too many agents between a woman and the thing she aims 
at, for her ever to attain it without danger of discomfiture. 
The experience, as j-ou may guess, put me in no amicable 
mood toAvards Mr. Seabrook. Just think of it! There 
were three years I had supported, by m}' labor, a large 



62 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

family of men, for that is wliat it amounted to. My money 
purchased the food the}* all ate, and I had really received 
nothin.i!' for it except my board and the clotlies I Avorked 
in. Tiie fault was not theirs; it was Mr. Seabrook's and 
society's." 

" I will tell you what you remind me of," I said: " You 
are like Penelope, and her train of ravenous suitors, in the 
Odijs.^pif of Homer." 

" In my busy life, I have not had time to read Homer,'' 
Mrs. Grey field replied; " but if any other woman has been 
so eaten out of house and home, as I was, I am sorry for 
her." 

" Homer's Penelope, if we ma}' believe the poet, was in 
much better circumstances to bear the ravages of her riotous 
boarders, than you were to feed yours gratuitously." 

" T;ilkin<^' about suitors," said Mrs. Grej'field, "I was 
not witliout those entirely, either. No young mismated 
woman can escape them perhaps. The universal opinion 
among men seems to be that, if you do not like the man 
you have, you mud like some other one; and each one 
thinks it is himself." 

The i)iquant tone in which Mrs. Greyfield uttered her 
observations always provoked a smile. But I caught at an 
intimation in her speech. "Sometimes," I said, "you 
speak as if you acknowdedged Mr. Seabrook as your hus- 
band, and it shocks me unpleasantly." 

"I am speaking of things as they apj)eared to others. In 
truth, I was as free to receive suitors as ever I had been; 
but such was not the common understanding, and I re- 
sented the advances of men upon the ground that they be- 
lieved themselves to be acting unlawfully, and that they 
hoped to make me a party to their breaches of law and 
propriety. I laugh now, in remembering the l)lunders com- 
mitted by self-conceit so long ago; but I did not laugh 
then; it was a serious matter at that time." 

"Was Mr. Seabrook jealous in his behavior, fearing you 
might fancy some one else?" 



THE NEW PEN ELOPE. 63 

"Just as jealous as vain and tyrannical men always are 
when they are thwarted in their designs. No real husband 
could have been more critical in his observations on his 
wife's deportment, than he was in his remarks on mine. If 
I could have been guilty of coquetry, the desire to annoy 
him would have been incentive enough; but I alwaj's con- 
sidered that I could not afford to suffer in my own estima- 
tion for the sake of j^uuishing him. When I recall all 
these things, I take credit to myself for magnanimity; 
though then I was governed only by my jooor uncultivated 
judgment, and my impulses. For instance, Mr. Seabrook 
fell ill of a fever not long after he appropriated my real 
estate. Of course, I was as bitter towards him in my heart 
as it is possible to conceive, but I could not know that he 
was lying unattended in his room, without offering assist- 
ance; so, after many struggles with myself to overcome my 
strong repulsion, I visited him often enough to give him 
such attentions as were necessary, but not more. I had no 
intention of raising any false expectations." 

' ' I hope you took advantage of his being confined to his 
room, to collect board-money," I said. 

"I found out, in time, several ways of managing that 
matter, which I Avould once have thought inadmissible. 
When I had begged some money from a boarder, Mr. Sea- 
brook discovered it when payday came, very naturally. He 
then ordered me to do the marketing. Without j^aying 
any attention to the command, I served up at meal-time 
whatever there was in the house. This brought out mur- 
murs from the boai'ders, and haught}^ inquiries from the 
host himself. All the reply I vouchsafed was, that what 
he procured I would cook. In this way I forced him to 
pay out the money in his possession, at the expense of my 
character as a good wife, and a polite one. He took his 
revenge in abusive language, and occasional fits of destruc- 
tiveness in the kitchen, which alarmed m^' little German 
neighbor more than it did me. So long as he secured all 



G4 THE XEW I'EX ELOPE. 

my eariitii<:;-s, and deceived people thoron^'Lly fis to liis vonl 
conduct, he maintained, before others at least, a gentle- 
manly d'Mueanor. IJut tliis was gradually giving Avay to 
the pressure of a constant thorn in his flesh, and tlie con- 
sciousness of his own liaseness. He could SAvear, threaten, 
aild almost strike at slight provocation now. He never 
really attempted the latter, but once, and it was then I told 
him I should shoot him, if he dared it. 

"I ought to say here, that in the last year I had two or 
three families iu the house for a short time. I don't know 
what these real wives thought of me; that I was a terma- 
gant probably; but they were not the kind of women I 
could talk to about mj'self, and I made no confidences. A 
plan was maturing in my mind that was to make it a matter 
of indifference what any one thought. I had relinquished 
the idea of getting money enough together to make a sure 
start in California, and was onh' waiting to have enoiigli 
to take me out of the country in an}' way that I could go 
cheapest. Another necessary point to gain was secrec}'. 
That could not be gained while I was surrounded by 
boarders, nor while Mr. Seabrook was in the house, and I 
resolved to be rid of both." 

"Oh," I cried, delighted and relieved, "how did you 
manage that?" 

"I am going to tell you by how simple an expedient. / 
slari'ed them out !" 

"How strange that in all those years you never thought 
of that,'" I said laughing. "But, then, neither did Homer's 
heroine, who kept a first-class free boarding house for twice 
or thrice us long as you. Do tell me how you accomplished 
the feat of clearing your house." 

" It is not quite true that I had not thought of it; but I 
had not dared to do it. Besides, I wanted to get some 
mone}', if i)ossible. Perhaps I should not have done it at 
the time I did, had not a little help come to me in the shape 
of real friends. I was all the time like a wild bird in a 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 65 

cage, and the continual attempts to escape I was making, 
only bruised my wings. It occurred to me one day to go 
to a certain minister who had lately come to Portland, and 
whose looks pleased me, as did his wife's, and tell them 
my story. This I did. 

"Instead of receiving it as fiction, or doubting the 
strange j^arts of it in a way to make me wish I had never 
spoken of them, they manifested the greatest interest and 
sympathy, and promised me any assistance the^^ could give. 
This was the first recognition I had gotten from anyone as 
being what I was; a woman held in bondage worse than 
that of African slavery, by a man to whom she owed noth- 
ing, and in the midst of a free, civilized, and Christian com- 
munity. They Avere really and genuinely shocked, and 
firmly determined to help me. I told them all the difficul- 
ties in the way, and of the exj)edient I had almost decided 
upon, to free my house from ever}^ one; for I thought that 
when his income stopped, Mr. Seabrook would be forced 
to go away, and seek some other means of living. They 
agreed with me that th^re appeared no better way, and I 
decided to attempt it. 

"It did not take long, of course, to drive away the 
boarders, for tbey were there only to eat; and when pro- 
visions entirely failed, or were uncooked, there was nothing 
to be done but to go where they could be better served. I 
did not feel very comfortable over it, as many of them were 
men I liked and respected, whose ill opinion it was disa- 
greeable to incur, even in a righteous cause; and then no 
woman likes to be the talk of the town, as I knew I must 
be. The ' town talk,' as it happened, in time suggested my 
further course to me. 

" Pray tell me if Mr. Seabrook followed the boarders, or 
did he stay and compel you to cook for him ? " 

" He stayed, but he did not compel me to cook for him. 
That I peremptorily refused to do. Neither would I buy 
any supplies. If he wanted a meal, he must go out, get 
5 



QQ THE NEW PENELOPE. 

his provisions, mid cook them for himself. Then he refused 
to buy anything to come in the liouse, lest I should share 
liin plenty. This reduced our rations to nothiuj^-. I used 
to take Benton out and buy him good, wholesome f(Jod, ray- 
self eating as little as would support nature. Occasionally, 
now that I had time on my hands, I spent a day out among 
my few visiting acquaintances; and sometimes I took a 
meal with my German friend. In this wa}' I compelled my 
former master to look out for himself. 

" One night, there not being a mouthful in the house to 
eat, I went out and bought a loaf of bread and some milk 
for Benton's breakfast; for I was careful not to risk the 
child's health as I risked njy own. In the morning when I 
came down stairs the bread and milk were gone. Mr. Sea- 
brook had breakfasted. ' Benuie ' and I could go hungry. 
And that brings me back to what * town talk ' did for me. 

" It soon became noised about that Mr. and Mrs. Sea- 
brook, who had never got on well together, were now going 
on dreadfully', and that probably there would be a divorce. 
'Divorce!' I said, Avhen my new friend, the minister, 
mentioned it to me, ' divorce from what? How can there 
be a divorce where there is no marriage?" ' Nevertheless,' 
he replied, ' it is worth considering. If the society you live 
in insist that you are married, why not gratify this societ}', 
and ask its leave to be legally separated from your nominal 
husband ? ' 

"At first I rebelled strongly against making this tacit 
admission of a relationship) of that kind to Mr. Seabrook. 
It appeared to me to be a confession of falsehood to those 
few persons who were in my confidence, some of whom I 
felt had always half-doubted the full particulars, as being 
too ugly for belief. And what was quite as unpalatable as 
the other was that my enemy would rejoice that for once, 
at least, and in a public record, I should have to confess 
myself his wife. M}' friends argued that it could make 
little difference, as that Avas the popular understanding 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 67 

alread}^ wbicli notliiiig could alter; and that so far as Mr. 
SeaLrook was concerned his triumph would he short-lived 
and valueless. They undertook to j)rocure counsel, and 
stand by me through the trial." 

"What complaint did you purpose making?" I inter- 
rupted. 

" ' Neglect of support, and cruel treatment;' the general 
charge that is made to cover so many abominable sins, be- 
cause we women shrink from exposing the crimes we have 
been in a measure partners to. My attorney assured me 
that, under the circumstances, Mr. Seabrook wovild not 
make any opposition, fearing we might prove the whole, if 
he did so; but would let the case go by default. This Avas 
just what he did; and oh, you should have witnessed his 
abject humility when I at last had the acknowledged right 
to put him out of my house ! 

" Up to the time the divorce was obtained, he kept pos- 
session of the room he had first taken, on the lower floor, 
and which I hired an Indian woman to take care of as one 
of the chores assigned her about the house. For myself, 
I would not set my foot in it, except on the occasions re- 
ferred to; biit the rent, and the care of it, he had free. 
Such was the moral degradation of the man, through his 
own acts, that after all that had passed, he actually cried, 
and begged of me the privilege to remain in that room, 
and be taken care of, as he had been used to be." 

" What did \o\\ answer him '?" 

"I told him never to darken my door — never to offend 
my sight again; that I should never be quite happy while 
his head was above the sod. O, I was very vindictive! 
And Le was as mild as milk. He ' could not see why I 
should hate him so, who had ahvays had so high a regard 
for me. He had never known a woman he admired and 
loved so much !' Even I was astonished at the man's ab- 
jectness." 

"It is not uncommon in similar cases. Dependence 



68 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

makes au}' one more or less mean; but it is more noticeable 
in men, who by nature and by custom are made iudepeud- 
ent. And so you Avere free at last ?" 

" Free and liapp3'. 1 felt as light as a bird, and won- 
dei'ed I couldn't fly ! I Avas jioor; but that was nothing. 
My business was broken np; but I felt confidence in myself 
to begin again. M}^ health, however, was very much 
broken down, and my friends said I needed change. That, 
with the desire to quit a country where I had suffered so 
much, determined me to come to California. It was the 
land of promise to my husband — the El Dorado he was 
seeking when he died. I always felt that if I had come 
here in the first place, my life would have been very differ- 
ent. So, finally, with the help of my kind friends I came." 

" /should have felt, with your experience, no courage to 
undertake life among strangers, and they mostly men." 

"On the contrar}', I felt armed in almost every point. 
The fact of being a divorced woman was my only annoy- 
ance; but I Avas resolved to suppress it so far as I was able, 
and to represent myself to be, as I was, the widow of Mr. 
Greylield. I took letters from my friends, to use in case 
of need; and with nothing but my child, and money enough 
to take me comfortably to the mines on the American 
River, left Oregon forever." 

'"■ To behold you as you are now, in this delightful home, 
it seems impossible that you should have gone through what 
you describe; and yet there must have been much more be- 
fore you achieved the success here indicated." 

" It was nothing — nothing at all compared with the other. 
I proceeded direct to the most jjopulous mining town, hired 
a house, bought furniture on credit, and took boarders 
again. I kept only lirst-class boarders, had high prices — 
and succeeded." 

" Did you never have the mining-stock fever, and invest 
and lose?" 

"Not to any dangerous extent. One or two parties, in 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 69 

AvLose judgment I knew I mig-lit confide, indicated to me 
where to invest, and I fortunateh' lost nothing, Avhile I 
made a little. Mj best mining-stock was a present from a 
young man who was sick at my house for a long time, and 
to whom I was attentive. He was an excellent young fel- 
low, and my sympathies were drawn out towards him; 
alone in a mining-camp, and sick, and, as I suspected, 
moneyless. When he was well enough to go awa}^ he con- 
fessed his inability to pay up, and presented me with several 
shares in a mine then but little known; saying that it might 
not be worth the pajDer it was printed on, but that he hojied 
it might bring enough to reimburse my actual outlay on 
his account; ' the kindness he had received could not be 
repaid with filthy lucre.' A few months afterwards that 
stock was worth several thousand dollars. I made diligent 
inqnir}' for my young friend, but could get no news of him 
from that daj' to this. I have been fortunate in everything 
I have touched since I came to California. Benton grew 
well and strong; I recovered my health; Fortune's wheel 
for me seemed to remain in one happy position; and now 
there seems nothing for me to do but to move slowly and 
easily down the sunset slope of life to my final rest." 

Mrs. Greyfield smiled and sighed, and remarked upon 
the fact that the hour-hand of the clock pointed to two in 
the morning. " It is really unkind of me to keep jo\x out 
of bed until such an hour as tliis," she said, laughing a 
little, as if we had only been talking of ordinary things. 
"But I am in the mood, like the 'Ancient Mariner;' and 
you are as much forced to listen as the ' Wedding Guest.'" 

"There is one thing yet I desire to be satisfied about," 
I replied. " As a woman, I cannot repress my curiosity to 
know whether, since all the troubles of your early life have 
been past, you have desii'ed to marry again. Opportunities 
I know you must have had. What I want, to be informed 
about is your feeling upon this subject, and whether any 
man has been able to fill your eye or stir your heart." 



70 THE NEW PENELOPE. 

The fix-st smile my question called up died away, and an 
introspective look came over Mrs. Greyfield's still hand- 
some face. She sat silent for a little time, that seemed 
lonfj' to me, for I was truly interested in her reply. 

" I think," she said at last, " that women who have had 
anything like my exi:»erience, are unfitted for married life. 
Either tliey are ruined morally and mentally, by the terri- 
ble i)ressure; or they become so sliarp-siglited and critical 
tluit no ordinary man would be able to win their confidence. 
I believe in marriage; a single life lias an incomplete, one- 
sided aspect, and is certainly lonely." Then rallying, with 
much of her usual brightness: "Undoubtedly! have had 
my times of doubt, when I found it hard to understand 
myself; and still, here I am! Nobod}' would have me; or 
I would not have anybody; or both." 

" One more question, then, if it is a fair one: Could you 
love again the husband of your youth; or has your ideal 
changed ? " 

Mrs. Greyfield was evidently disturbed by the inquiry. 
Her countenance altered, and she hesitated to reply. 

" I beg your pardon," I said; " I hope you will not an- 
swer me, if I have been impertinent." 

"That is a question I never asked myself," she finally 
rei)lied. "My husband was all in all to me during our 
brief married life. His death left me trulj- desolate, and 
his memory sacred. But we were both young, and proba- 
bl}' he viay have been unformed in character, to a great 
degree, as well as myself. How he would seem noAV, if he 
could be restored to me as he was then, I can onlj' half 
imagine. What he would now he, if he had lived on, I can- 
not at all imagine. But let us now go take a wink of sleej). 
My eyelids at last begin to feel dry and heavy; and you, I 
am sure, are jDerishing under the tortures of resistance to 
the drowsy god." 

" The storm is over," I said. " I thought you felt that 
something was going to hai')peu! " 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 71 

" It "will be breakfast, I suppose. By tlie way, I must go 
and put a note under Jane's door, telling lier not to have it 
before half-past nine. There will be a letter from Benton, 
by the morning mail. Good night; or, good morning, and 
sweet slumber." 

" God be with you," I responded, and in twent}' minutes 
was sleeping soundly. 

Not so my hostess, it seems, for when we met again at 
our ten o'clock breakfast, she looked pale and distraught, 
and acknowledged that she had not been able to compose 
herself after our long talk. The morning was clear and 
sunny, but owing to the storm of the night, the mail was 
late getting in, a circumstance which gave her, as I 
thought, a degree of uneasiness not warranted by so 
natural a delay. 

" You know I told 3'ou," she said, trying to laugh off her 
nervousness, "that something was going to happen!" 

" It would be a strange condition of things where nothing 
did happen," I answered; and just then the horn of the 
mail-carrier sounded, and the lumbering four-horse coach 
rattled down the street in sight of our windows. 

"There," I said, "is your U. S. M. safe and sound, 
road- agents and land-slides to the contrary and of no 
effect." 

Very soon our letters were brought us, and my hostess, 
excusing herself, retired to her room to read hers. Two 
hours later she sent for me to come to her. I found her 
lying with a wet handkerchief folded over her forehead and 
eyes. A large and thick letter laid half open upon a table 
beside the bed. 

"Read that," she said, without uncovering her eyes. 
When I bad read the letter, " M}'' dear friend," I said, 
"what are you going to do? I hope, after all, this may be 
good news." 

" What can I do? What a strange situation!" 

"You will wish to see him, I sui:)pose? 'Arthur Grey- 



72 THE NEW rENELOI'E. 

fied.' You never told nie his name was Artliur," I remarked, 
thinking- to weaken the intensity of her feeliogs b^' refer- 
ring to a trifling: circumstance. 

" Why have 1 not died before this time?" she exclaimed, 
unheeding- my attempt at diversion. " This is too much, 
too much!" 

" Perhaps there is still happiness in store for you, my 
dear Mrs. Greyfield," I said. " Strange as is this new dis- 
pensation, may there not be a blessing in it ? " 

She remained silent a long time, as if thinking deeph'. 
" He has a daughter," she at leng-th remarked; " and Ben- 
ton says she is \evy sweet and loveable." 

"And motherless," I added, not without design. I had 
meant only to arouse a feeling- of compassion for a j'oung 
girl half-orphaned; but something more than was in my 
mind had been suggested to hers. She quickly raised her- 
self from a reclining posture, threw off the concealing 
handkerchief, and gazed intently in my face, while saying 
slowly, as if to herself: " Not only motherless, but accord- 
ing to law, fatherless." 

" Precisely," I answered. " Her mother was in the same 
relation to Mr. Greyfield, that you were in to Mr. Seabrook; 
but happily she did not know it in her lifetime." 

" Nor lie — nor he! Arthur Greyfield is not to be spoken 
of in the same breath with Mr. Seabrook." 

The spirit with which this vindication of her former hus- 
band was made, caused me to smile, in spite of the dra- 
matic interest of the situation. The smile did not escape 
her notice. 

" You think I am blown about by every eontending 
breath of feeling," she said, wearily; "when the truth is, 
I am trying to make out the right of a case in which there 
is so much wrong; and it is no easy thing to do." 

"But you will find the right of it at last," I answered. 
"You are not called upon to decide in a moment upon a 
matter of such weight as this. Take time, take rest, take 
counsel." 



THE NEW TENELOVE. 73 

" Will you read the letter over to me ? " she asked, lying- 
down again, and preparing to listen by shielding her face 
with her hands. 

The letter of Arthur Greyfield ran as follows: 

"My Deak Anna: How strange it seems to me to be 
writing to you again! It is like conversing Avith one re- 
turned from another world, to you, too, no doubt. There 
is so much to explain, and some things that perhaps will 
not ever be explained satisfactorily to you, that I knoAv not 
where to begin or what to say. Still Benton insists on my 
writing before seeing you, and perhaps this is best. 

" To begin at the beginning. "When I was left for dead 
by m}' frightened comrades on the plains, I had not died, 
but was only insensible; and I do not believe they felt at 
all sure of my death, for they left me unburied, as if to 
give me a chance; and deserted me rather than take any 
risks by remaining any longer in that place. How long I 
laid insensible I do not know. "When I came to myself I 
was alone, well wraj^ped up in a large bed-quilt, and Ij'ing 
on the ground close by the wagon-trail. Nothing was left 
for my support, if alive, from which I concluded that they 
agreed. to consider me dead. 

" "When I opened my eyes again on the wilderness world 
about me, the sun was shining brightly, and the wind 
blowing cool from the near mountains; but I was too much 
exhausted to stir; and laid there, kept alive by the pure air 
alone, until sunset. About that time of day I heard the 
tread of cattle coming, and the rumbling of wagons. The 
shock of joy caused me to faint, in which condition I was 
found by the advance guard of a large train bound for the 
mines in California. I need not tell you all those men did 
for me to bring nie round, but thej' were noble fellows, and 
earned my everlasting gratitude. 

"You can imagine that the first thought in my mind 
was about you and Benton. When I was able to talk 
about myself and answer questions, my new friends, who 
had laid by for a couple of da^'s on my account, assured 
me that the^^ should be able to overtake the California 
train, in which I supposed you were, before they came to 
the Sierras. But we had accidents and delays, and failed 
to come up with that train anjwhere on the route. 

" At last we arrived in the mining country, and my 
new friends speedily scattered abroad, looking for gold. 



74 THE NEW r EN ELOPE. 

I was still too feeble to avoiIc in the water, wasliinq; out, or 
to dig'. I had no nione3' or projK'rty of any kind, and was 
obliged to accept any means that oli'ered of earning a sub- 
sistence. ^Meanwhile I made such inijuiry as I could under 
the circumstances, and in such a country, but without 
learning anything of any of my former friends and ac- 
quaintances, for two years. Before this time, however, my 
health was restored, notwithstanding great hardships; and 
being quite successful in mining, I was laying up consid- 
erable gold-dust. 

"About this time a man came into our camp from 
Oregon. As I was in the habit of inquiring of any new- 
comer concerning you, and the people in the train you' 
were in, I asked this man if he had ever met a Mrs. Grey- 
iield, or an}' of the ethers. He replied that he thought 
there was a woman of my name living in Portland, Oregon, 
a year or two before — he was sure he had heard of a young 
widow of that name. I immediately wrote to you at that 
place ; but whether the letter was lost on the way, or 
whether it was intercepted there (as by some intimations I 
have from Benton, it might have been), no reply ever came 

to it. I also sent a letter to Mr. , in whose care I had 

left you, but nothiiig was ever heard from him. 

"When I had waited a reasonable length of time I 
wrote again to the jiostmaster of the same place, asking 
him if he knew of such a person as Mrs. Greyfield, in 
Oregon. The reply came this time from a man named 
Seabrook, who said that there had been a woman of the 
name of Greyfield in Portland at one time, but that both 
she and her child were dead. This news put an end to 
inquiries in that direction, though I continued to look for 
anj' one who might have known you, and finally found one 
of our original party, who confirmed the intelligence of 
your having gone to Oregon instead of California, and so 
settled the question, as I supposed, forever. 

" You may wonder, dear Anna, that I did not go to 
Oregon when I had the barest suspicion of your being 
there. The distance and the trouble of getting there were 
not what deterred me. I was making money where I was, 
and did not wish to abandon my claim Avhile it was pro- 
ducing well, for an uncertain hint that might mislead 
me." 

"Stop tliere!" interrupted Mrs. Greyfield. "Do you 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 75 

think / should have hesitated in a case like that? But 

go on." 

"I knew you had considerable property, and thouqht I 
knew you Avere with friends who would not let you suffer — " 

" Though they had abandoned him while still alive, in 
the wilderness! Beg pardon; please go on again." — 

"And that Oregon was really a more comfortable, and 
safe place for a family than California, as times were 
then — " 

Mrs. Grey field groaned. 

" And that you, if there, would do very well until I could 
come for you. I could not suspect that you would avail 
yourself of the privilege of widowhood within so short a 
time, if ever." 

"Oh!" ejaculated my listener, with irrei^ressible impa- 
tience. 

I read on ^^ithout appearing to observe the interruption. 

" To tell the truth, I had not thought of myself as dead, 
and that is probably where I made the greatest mistake. It 
did not occur to me, that you were thinking of yotirself as 
a widow; therefore, I did not realize the risk. But when 
the news came of your death, if it were really you, as I 
finally made up my mind it must be — " 

An indignant gesture, accompanied by a sob, expressed 
Mrs. Greyfield's state of feeling on this head. 

" I fell into a state of confirmed melancholy, reproaching 
myself severely for not having searched the continent over 
before stopping to dig gold! though it was for you I was 
digging it, and our dear boy, whom I believed alive and 
well, somewhere, until 1 received Mr. Seabrook's letter. 

" My dear Anna, I come now to that which will try your 
feelings; but you must keep in view that I have the same 
occasion for complaint. Having made a comfortable for- 
tune, and feeling miserable about you and the boy, I con- 
cluded to return to the Atlantic States, to visit my old 
home. AVhile there I met a lovely and excellent girl, who 
consented to be my wife, and I was married the second 
time. We had one child, a girl, now eighteen years of age; 
and then my wife died. I mourned her sincerely, but not 
more so than I had mourned you. 



7G THE NE]V PEXELOVE. 

" At last, after all these years, news came of you from a 
reliable source. The very man to whose charge I commit- 
ted 3'ou wlien I expected to die, returned to the States, and 
from him I heard of your arrival in Oreoon, your marriage, 
and your subsequent divorce. Painful as this hist news 
Avas to my feelings, I set out immediately for California (I 
had learned from him that you were probably in this State), 
and commenced inc[uiries. An advertisement of mine met 
Benton's eye only two days ago, and yon may imagine my 
pleasure at the discover}' of my only and dear son, so long- 
lost to me. He is a fine, manl}- fellow, and good; for which 
I have to thank you, of course." 

"You see, he appropriates Benton at once. Never so 
much as ' by your leave.' But Benton will not quit me to 
follow this new-found father," Mrs. Greyfield said, with 
much feeling. 

"He ma}^ not be put to the test of a choice. You have 
a proi)osition to consider," I replied. "Let me read it." 

" No, no! Yet, read it; what do I care? Gro on. 

"My daughter, Nellie, is the very picture of her mother, 
and as sweet and good as one could desire. Benton seems 
to be delighted with her for a sister. And now that the 
young folks have taken such a fancy to each other, there is 
something that I wish to propose to .you. It cannot be ex- 
pected, after all that has passed, and with the lapse of so 
many years, we could meet as if nothing had come be- 
tween us—" 

"Who suffered all this to come between l^s?" cried Mrs, 
Greyfield, much agitated. 

"But I trust we can meet as friends, dear friends, and 
that possibly in time we may be re-united, as much for our 
own sakes, as the children's." 

" Oh, how can I ever forgive him ? Does it not seem to 
you that if Mr. Greyfield had done his duty, all this ter- 
rible trouble and illegal marrying would have been avoided? 
Do you think a man should consider anything in this world 
before his wife and children, or fail of doing his utmost in 
any circumstances for them ? How else is marriage su- 
perior to any illicit relation, if its duties are not sacred 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 77 

and not to be set aside for anything? I could never have 
done as he has done, blameless as he thinks himself." 

The condition of Mrs. Greyfield's mind was such that no 
answer was written or attempted that day nor the next. She 
sent a brief dispatch to Benton, asking him to come home, 
and come alone. I wished to go awa}', thinking she would 
prefer being left quite to herself under the circumstances, 
but she insisted on my remaining until something had been 
decided on about the meeting between her and Mr. Grey- 
field. Benton came home as requested, and the subject 
was canvassed in all its bearings. The decision arrived at 
was, that an invitation should be sent to Mr. Greyfield and 
daughter to visit Mrs. Greyfield for a fortnight. Every- 
thing beyond that was left entirely to the future. When 
all was arranged, I took my leave, promising and being 
promised frequent letters. 

The last time I was at Mrs. Greyfield's, I found there 
onl}' herself and her daughter Nellie. 

" I have adopted her," she said, " with her father's con- 
sent. She is a charming girl, and I could not bear to leave 
her motherless. Benton is very much attached to his 
father. They are oft' on a mountaineering expedition at 
present, but I hope they will come home before you go 
away." 

"Are you not going to tell me," I asked, " how yon 
finally settled matters between Mr. Greyfield and yourself." 

"He is a very jDersistent suitor," she replied, smiling, " I 
can hardly tell what to do with him." 

"You do not want to break bark over his head? " I said, 
laugbing. 

"No; but I do almost wish that since he had stayed 
away so long he had never come back. I had got used to 
my own quiet, old-maid ways. I was done, or thought I 
was done, with passion and romance; and now to be tossed 
about in this wa}', on the billows of doubt — to love and not 
to love — to feel revengeful and forgiving — to think one way 



78 THE NEW rENELOl'E. 

in the morning a.ntl another way hy noon, is very tiresome. 
I really Jo not know what to do with him." 

I sinilecl, because I tliought the admission was as good as 
Mr. G-reyfiekl need desire, for his prospects. 

"I think I can understand," I said, "howdifiScnlt it 
must be to get over all the gaps made by so many years of 
estrangement— of fancied death, even. Had you been look- 
ing for him for such a length of time, there would still be 
a great deal of awkwardness in the meeting, when you came 
together again." 

"Yes," said Mrs. Greyfield, "it is inevitable. The most 
artistic bit of truth in the Othjuae;/ (you see I have read 
Homer since you called me Penelope), is where the poet 
describes the difficulty the faithful wife had in receiving the 
long-absent, and now changed, Ulysses as her true hus- 
band." 

"But she did receive him," I interrupted, "and so will 
you." 

"The minister will have to bless the reception then. And 
to confess the whole truth to you, we are corresponding 
with my friend of long ago in Portland. He has promised 
to come down to perform the ceremony, and as his health 
is impaired, we have invited him to bring his family, at our 
expense, and to remain in our home while Mr. Greytield 
and I, with Benton and Nellie, make a tour to and through 
Europe." 

"How much you and Mr. Greyfield must have to talk 
over! It Avill take a year or two of close association to 
make jon even tolerably' well acquainted again." 

"No; the 'talking over' is tabooed, and that is why we 
are going to travel — to have something else to talk about. 
You see I am so unforgiving that I cannot bear to hear Mr. 
Gi'eyfield's story, and too magnanimous, notwithstanding, 
to inflict mine upon him. To put temptation out of my 
way, I proposed this European excursion." 

"You are commencing a new life," I said. " May it be 



THE NEW PENELOPE. 79 

as happy as your darkest days were sad. There is one 
thiug- you never told me, what became of Mr. Seabrook." 

" I saw his death in a Nevada paper, only a feAv days ago. 
He died okl, poor and alone, or so the account ran, in a 
cabin among the mountains. ' The mills of the gods,' etc. , 
you know? "' 

" Then I am not to see Mr. Greyfield? " 

" Oyes; if 3'ou will stay until Mr. comes from Port- 
land. I shall be glad of your presence on that occasion. 
Mr. Grreyfield, you must understand, is uuder orders to 
keep out of the way until that time arrives. You can be of 
service to me, if you will stay." 

I staid and saw them oft" to Europe, then went on my 
way to Lake Tahoe, to meet other friends; but I have a 
promise from this strangely re-united couple, to spend a 
summer in Oregon, when they return from their trans-At- 
lantic tour; at which time I hope to be able to remove from 
Mrs. Greyfield's mind the painful impression derived from 
her former acquaintance with the city of my adoption. 



80 >» CURIOUS INTERVIEW. 



A CURIOUS INTERVIEW. 

YANCOUVEIl'S Island furnisbes some of the finest 
scenery on the Pacific Coast; not grandest, perhaps, 
but qiTietly charming. Its shores are indented every here 
and there with the loveliest of baj's and sounds, forming the 
most exfjuisite little harbors to be found anywhere in the 
world. Tlie climate of the Island, esiDecially its summer 
climate, is delightful. Such bright, bracing airs as come 
from the sea on one side, and from the snow-capped mount- 
ains of the mainland on the other, are seldom met with on 
either hemisphere. Given a July day, a pleasant compan- 
ion or two in a crank little boat, whose oars we use to make 
silvery interludes in our talk, and I sbould not envy your 
sailor on the Bosphorus. 

On such a July day as I am hinting at, our party had 
idled awa}^ the morning, splashing our way indolently 
through the blue waters of Nittinat Sound, the mountains 
towering behind us, the open sea not far off; but all around 
us a shore so emerald green and touched with bits of color, 
so gracefully, picturesquely wild, that not, in all iis unre- 
straint, was there an atom of savagery to be subdued in 
the interest of pure beauty. It was a wilderness not 
wild, a solitude not solitary; but rather pojDulous with 
happy fancies, born of all harmonious influences of earth, 
air and water; of sunlight, shadow, color aiid fragrance. 

" My soul to-day is far away, 
Sailing a sunny tropic bay," 

Sang Charlie, bursting with jjoetry. The next moment 
" Hallo! boat ahoy!" and into the scene in which just now 
we had been the only life, slipped from some hidden inlet, 
an Indian canoe. 



A CURIOUS IKTERVIEW. 81 

"Isn't sbe a beaut}', tlioug-li?" said Charlie, laying on 
his oar. "Fourteen paddles; slim, crank, and what a curi- 
ous ligure-head! By George, that's a pretty sight! " 

And a pretty sight it was, as the canoe, with its red and 
blue-blanketed oarsmen, was propelled swiftly through the 
water, and quickly brought alongside; when we had oi:)por- 
tunity to observe that the crew were all stalwart young fel- 
lows, with rather fine, grand features, that looked as if 
they might have been cut in bronze, so immobile and fixed 
were tbey. Their dress was the modern dress of the North- 
ern Indians, supplied by the Hudson's Bay Company, of 
bright colors and fine texture. But what most engaged our 
attention was the figure of the fifteenth occupant of the 
canoe, who acted as steersman. He was evidently a very 
old man, and instead of being dressed in blankets, had on 
a mantle of woven rushes, and leggins of wolf-skin. A 
quiver full of arrows hung at his back; his bow rested on 
his knees. On his grizzled head was a tall, pointed and 
gai'ly painted hat, made of braided grasses, which com- 
pletely resembled a mammoth extinguisher. As the canoe 
shot past us, I imagined that I detected an expression of 
contempt upon the old man's face, though he never moved 
nor spoke, nor in any way evinced any interest in us. 

"Eheu! what a funny -looking old cove," said Charlie, 
gazing after the canoe, " I should like to cultivate his ac- 
quaintance." 

" Well, you have the opportunity," rejoined Fanny, the 
third member of our party. " They are going to land on 
that point just ahead of us." 

"We were all watching them, fascinated by the noiseless 
dexterity of their movements, when suddenly there was 
nothing to be seen of either boat or crew. 

"Where the deuce have they gone to?" asked Charlie, 
staring at the vacant spot where the canoe had disappeared. 

"Great heavens!" cried Fanny, who, like her brother, 



82 A CURIOUS INTERVIEW. 

used a very exclamatory style of speech ; " Avliy, tliey have 
all vauished into tliiii air!" 

As I could not contradict this assertion, I jn'oposed that 
we should follow, and examine into the mystery; hut Fanny 
cried out, " O, for goodness' sake, don't! I'm afraid. If 
they have the power to make themselves invisible, they may 
he hiding' to do us harm." 

" It is only visible harm that I'm afraid of," answered 
Charlie, with his eyes still fixed wonderinglj- on the point 
of space where they had so lately' been; " pull fast, Pierre, 
let us find out what the rascals are up to." 

Thus urged, I threw what force I could into my oar- 
stroke (for I was but a convalescent), and very soon we 
came to the long sloping point of mossy rocks where we had 
expected to see the canoe's passengers land. I own that I 
approached it with some caution, thinking it jjossible that 
a whirljiool might have sucked the boat and its freight of 
fifteen lives out of sight, in some i:)oint of time when our 
eyes Avere for an instant averted. But the water was per- 
fectly quiet, and the whole place, both on water and on 
laud, silent, sunny, and not in the least uncanny or alarm- 
ing. We dropped our oars and gazed at each other in 
amazement. 

"Well, if that don't beat the Dutch!" was Charlie's 
comment; and I fancied that his brown cheek grew a shade 
less rudd}' than usual. As for Fanny, she was in a fright, 
paling and shrinking as if from some terrible real and visi- 
ble danger; and when I proposed to land and investigate 
the mystery, fairly mustered quite a copious shower of tears 
with which to melt my resolve. 

" O, Pierre — Mr. Blanchett, I mean — oh, please don'tgo 
ashore. I am sure either that these dreadful savages are 
lurking here to destroy us, or that we have been deceived 
by some wicked conjuror. Oh, I am .so frightened!" 

" M}' dear Miss Lane," I answered, "I give 30U my word 
no harm shall come to you. Shall we let a lot of blanketed 



A CURIOUS INTERVIEW. 83 

savages perform a coujurer's trick right before our faces 
that we do not attemj^t to have explained? By no means. 
If you are too nervous to come ashore with us, Charlie may 
stay with you in the boat, and I will go by myself to look 
into this matter." Whereupon Fanny gave me so reproach- 
ful a look out of her great brown eyes that I quailed be- 
neath it. 

"Do you think Charlie and I would leave you to go into 
danger alone? No, indeed; if you ivill be so rash, we will 
accompany you; and if die we must, we will all die to- 
gether.'' That last appeal being made with a very touch- 
ing quaver of a very melodious voice. 

For answer, I assisted her out of the boat, Avhich Charlie 
was already fastening by the chain to some bushes near the 
bit of beach; and tucking the little gloved hand under my 
arm, seized an opportunity to whisper something not par- 
ticularly relevant to this story. 

The boat being secured, we climbed a short distance up 
the rocky bank, stopping to gather wild roses and mock- 
orange blossoms, which, in spite of her alarm, engaged 
Miss Lane's attention to such an extent that Charlie had 
gotten fairly out of sight before we missed him. But as we 
turned to follow, he confronted us with a face expressive of 
a droll kind of perplexity. 

" Not a red rascal in sight," said he, glancing back over 
his shoulder, "except that queer old cove that Avas sitting 
in the stern. Hk'h just over there," jerking his head in the 
direction meant, " sitting on his haunches like an Egyptian 
idol, and about as motionless, and about as ancient." 

" But their canoe," I said, " what could they have done 
with their canoe? It is not in the water, and there is no 
sign here of their having dragged it ashore." 

" They didn't land, not in the regular way, I mean, for 
I was Avatehing for them every instant; and how that old 
chap got there, and how that canoe got out of sight so quick, 
is too hard a nut for me to crack, I confess." 



84: A CURIOUS iNTi:i:viK\v. 

" Let us not go near the dreadful old tiling," pleaded 
Fanny ouce more, her alarm returning. 

Again I proposed to her to stay in the boat with Cliarlie, 
■\vhifh had the effect, as before, to determine her upon going 
with us; which determination I strengthened by an en- 
couraging pressure of the little gloved hand in my posses- 
sion; and without waiting for further alarms pressed on at 
once, with Charlie for guide, to the sj^ot where the " dread- 
ful old thing" was understood to be. 

And there, sure enough, he was, squatting on the ground 
beside a spring, where grew a thicket of willows and wild 
roses; alone and silent, evidently ^Yatching, if not waiting, 
for our approach. 

" What will you say to him ?" asked Fann}', as we came 
quite near, eyeing the singular object with evident dread. 

""We'll ask him if he is hungry," said Charlie lightly. 
" If he is a live Indian he is sure to say 'yes' to that prop- 
osition; and Charlie actually produced from his pockets 
some sandwiches, in a slightly damaged condition. Hold- 
ing these before him, very much as one holds an ear of 
corn to a frisk}' colt he wishes to catch, he apjiroached near 
enough to offer them, Fanny still holding me back just 
enough to let this advance be made before we came up. 
To her great relief the munnny jiut out a skinny hand, and 
snatched the offered provisions under its robe. 

" You see he is only a poor starving old Indian," I said. 

" Me no poor — no starve; me big chief," retorted the old 
man, glancing disdainfully at us, with eyes that now 
appeared bright. 

I exchanged telegraphic communication with Charlie and 
Fanny, seated her comfortablj^ upon a mossy boulder, and 
threw myself at her feet, while Charlie disposed of himself 
also, within conversational distance. 

" May I ask what is your name?" I inquired, insinuat- 
ingly. 

"My name is Nittinat — this is my country; this water is 
mine; this earth, these stones — all mine that you see." 



A CUB 10 US INTERVIEW. 85 

" Sacli a great chief must have many warriors — many 
peojDle. I do not see any. AYere those your people that I 
saw in the canoe ?" 

"Nittinat's people all gone," answered the old man 
sadly, dropping his chin upon his rush-clad breast. 

"But we saw a canoe with fourteen warriors in it, besides 
yourself," Charlie eagerly asserted. ""Where are those 
young men?" 

" Me great medicine man; make see canoe — make see 
young men," responded the owner of the place, with a wan 
yet superior sort of smile. 

Charlie glanced at us, then asked quite deferentially, 
" Can you make us see what is not here?" 

" You have seen," was the brief rei:)ly. 

"Ask him why we are thus favored," whispered Fanny. 

" This young cloochman (you see I must talk to him in 
his own tongue, Fanny), wishes to know" why you ojDened 
our eyes to your great medicine." 

""White man come to Nittinat's land, white man see 
Xittinat's power. "White man ask questions !" — this last 
contemptuously, at which Fanny laughed, as asking ques- 
tions was one of her reserved rights. 

" You must be an old man, since these waters are named 
after you," suggested I. ""Who was the first white man 
3'ou remember seeing?" 

" Hijas tyee, Cappen Cook. Big ship — big guns!" an- 
swered Nittinat, warming with the recollection. 

"This is a good lead," remarked Charlie, soUo voce; 
" follow it up, Pierre." 

"You were a child then? ver}' little?'' making a move- 
ment with my hand to indicate a child's stature. 

"Me a chief — many warriors — big chief. Ugh!" said 
the mummy, with kindling eyes. 

At this barefaced story, Charlie made a grimace, while 
he commented in an undertone: " But it is ninetj'-six years 
since Captain Cook visited this coast. How the old hum- 
bug lies." 



86 ^1 CURIOUS INTKiniEW. 

At tliis whispered imputation \i]ion liis lienor, the ohl 
chief re<;'anled us scornfully; thou^^h how such u pav(\liment 
conutenaiice could he made to express anything excited my 
Avonder. 

"Me no lie. Nittinat's heart big. Kittinat's heart good. 
Close iiim-lum, ugh!" 

"White man's eyes are closed — his heart is darkened, " 
said I, adopting what I considered to be a conciliatory st^'le 
of speech. My friend cannot understand how you could 
have known Captain Cook so long ago. All the white men 
w^ho knew the great white chief have gone to their fathers." 

"Ugh, all same as Cappen Cook. He no believe my 
cousin Wiecanish see big Spanish ship 'fore he came." 

"How did he make him see it at last?" asked Charlie, 
stretching himself ovit on the grass, and covering his eyes 
with his hat, from under the brim of which he shot quizzi- 
cal glances at Fanny and I. 

" Wiccanish showed Cook these," replied Nittinat, draw- 
ing from beneath his robe a necklake of shells, to which 
two silver spoons were attached, of a peculiar j^atteru, and 
much battered and worn. 

"Oh, do let me see them," cried Fanny, whose passion 
for relics was quickl}' aroused. Charlie, too, Avas con- 
strained to abandon his laz}' attitude for a moment to ex- 
amine such a curiosity as these quaint old spoons. 

" Only to think that they are more than a hundred years 
old! But I cannot make out the lettering upon them; per- 
haps he is deceiving us after all," said Fanny, passing them 
to me for inspection. 

I took out of my pocket a small magnifying-giass, which, 
although it could not restore what was worn away, brouglit 
to light all that was left of an inscription, probably the 
manufacturer's trade-mark, the only legible part of which 
was 17-0. 

"Did the Sfianish captain give these to your cousin?" I 
asked. 



A CUB/0 US INTERVIEW. 87 

"Ugli!" responded Nattiuat, nodding Lis tall extin- 
guisher. " Wiceanish go on board big sliip, see cappen." 

"And stole the spoons," murmured Charlie from under 
his hat. 

Fanny touched his foot with the stick of her parasol, for 
she stood in awe of this ancient historian, not wishing to 
to be made a subject of his powerful " medicine." 

"And so you knew Captain Cook?" I repeated, when 
the spoons were hidden once more imder the mantle of 
rushes, " and other white men too, I suppose. Did your 
people and the white people always keep on friendly 
terms?" 

" Me have good heart," answered Nittinat rather sadly. 
" Me and my cousins Wiccanish, Clyoquot, Maquinna, and 
Tatoocheatticus, we like heaj) sell our furs, and get knives, 
beads, and brass buttons. Heap like nails, chisels, and 
such things. If my young men sometimes stole very little 
things, Nittinat's heart was not little. He made the white 
chiefs welcome to wood and water; he gave them iiis 
women; and sometime make a big feast — kill two, three, 
six slaves. ^Vhite chief heap mean to make trouble about 
a few chains or hammers after all that ! " 

" Oh, the horrid wretch!" whispered Fanny: "Does he 
say he killed half a dozen slaves for amusement? " 

" If he did. Miss Lane," I answered; " w^as it worse than 
the elegant Romans used to do ? The times and the man- 
ners have to be considered, you know." 

Fanny shuddered, but said nothing, and I went on ad- 
dressing myself to Nittinat: 

"How many ships did you ever see in these waters at 
one time? — I mean long ago, in Captain Cook's time? " 

The old chief held up five fingers, for answer. 

" And you and your cousins were friendly to all of 
them ? " 

" Maquinna's heart good, too, — done (inn-tum. Sell land 
to one Cappen; he go 'way. Sell laud to other Cappen; he 



88 ^ CURIOUS INTEIIVIKW. 

go 'way, too. Biiue-by two Ca2)pens come Lack, (juariel 
'bout the land. Maquinna no say anything. When one 
Cappen ask: ' Is the hind mine ? ' Maquinna tell him 'yes.' 
AVhen other Cappen ask: 'Is the land mine?' Maquinna 
tell him 'yes,' too, all same. O yes; Indian have good 
heart; no want to fight great white chief with big guns. 
He stay in his lodge, and laugh softly to himself, and let 
the white chiefs fight 'bout the land. Ugh! " 

".The mercenary old diplomat! " muttered Charlie, under 
his hat. "Here's your 'noble savage,' Fanny. Burn a lit- 
tle incense, can't you?" But Faun}- preferred remaining 
silent to answering her brother's bantering remarks; and if 
she was burning incense at all, I had reason to think it was 
to one who shall be nameless. 

"Did yovi always have skins to sell to so many vessels? " 
I asked, returning to the subject of the trading vessels. 

" Long ago had plenty; bime-by not many. White chief 
he heap mean. Skin not good, throw 'em back to Indian. 
My young men take 'em ashore, stretch tail long like sea- 
otter, fix 'em up nice; give 'em to other Indian, tell him go 
sell 'em. All right. Caj^pen buy 'em next time; pay good 
price; like 'em heap;" at which recollection the mummy 
actually laughed. 

"How is that for Yankee shrewdness? '" asked a muffled 
voice under a hat; to which, however, I paid no attention. 

" You sjieak of the Avhite chiefs fighting about land. 
Did they ever use their big guns on each other? Tell me 
Avhat you remember about the white men Avho came here 
in ships, long ago." 

"After Cappen Cook go 'way, long time, come Spanish 
ship, King George ship, Boston ship. Spanish Cappen no 
like King George Cappen. One day fight with long knives; 
(swords) and Spanish Cappen put King George man in 
big ship; send him 'way off. Many ships came and went; 
sold many skins. One time all go 'way but the Boston 
ships. Bime-by King George's ships came back and fight 
the Boston's." 



A cuprous INTERVIEW. 89 

"And YOU kept your good heart all the time? Never 
killed the Bostons or King George men ? " 

At this interrogation, Nittiuat shuffled his Avithered limbs 
uneasily beneath his rush mantle, and averted his parch- 
ment countenance. Upon my pressing the question, as 
delicately as I knew how, he at length recovered his immo- 
bility, and answered in a plausible tone enough: 

"Boston Cappen Gray, he build a fort at Clyoquot. My 
cousin "Wiccauish sell him the ground, and Cappen Gray 
bring all his goods from the ship, and put them in the fort 
for winter. Our young men were lazy, and had not many 
skins to sell; but they wanted Cappen Gray's goods; they 
liked the firewater a heap. So the young men they say, 
'kill Cappen Gray, and take his goods.' My cousin say, 
'no; that a heap bad.' Nittinat say that bad too. But we 
tell our young men if they loill do this bad thing, we will 
not leave them without a chief to direct them. So my 
young men came to Clyoquot to help their cousins take the 
big guns of the fort. But Cappen Gray find all out in time 
to save our young men from doing wrong. We tell him 
our hearts all good. He give us presents, make close tum- 
(iDH. No use kill Boston iyee when he give us what we 
want." 

Charlie tilted up his sombrero, and shot an approving 
glance at the venerable philosopher that caused a smile to 
ripple Fanny's face at the instant she was saying, "The 
horrid wretch!" with feminine vehemence. To cover this 
by-play, I asked if Nittinat remembered the Tonquin. 

"Oh, come!" ejaculated Charlie, starting up, "I say we 
have had enough of this artless historian's prattle; don't 
you?" 

"Consider," I urged, "how rare the opportunity of veri- 
fying tradition. Compose yourself, my friend, while I 
continue my interviewing. Turning to Nittinat I asked: 
"AVhy did the Indians destroy Captain Thorn's vessel?" 

"Cappen Thorn big chief; no like Indian; big voice; no 



90 ^ CUBIOUS INTl'JnVIEW. 

give presents; no let Indian conic on board without leave; 
Indian no like Cappen Thorn. He get inad at my cousin 
Kasiascall for hiding on his ship; keep him all night pris- 
oner, cause lie no ])unisli his young men for cutting the 
boarding-netting. Kasiascall get mad. Next day no In- 
dian go to trade Avith the ship; then Cappen Thorn he send 
McKay ashore to sa}- he is sorrj', and talk to Indian 'boi;t 
trade. 

"Indian ver}'^ good to McKay; say not mad; say come 
next day to trade plenty. Kasiascall, too, tell McKay all 
right; come trade all same. But McKay he look dark; he 
no believe my cousin; think Indian lie. All same he tell 
come to-morrow; and he shake hands, and go back to ship. 
He tell CapiDcn Thorn, 'Indian sa}' he trade to-morrow.' 
Big Cappen walk the deck very proud. He say he 'teach 
the damned Indians to behave themselves.' 

"Next day six white men come ashore to visit our lodges. 
Mj' cousin treat white men well. Kasiascall and his young 
men go to the ship to trade. Pretty soon Kasiascall come 
back: say McKay look dark and sad; say Indian buy plenty 
of knives and hide under their blankets; sa}' I will see the 
ship taken b}' the Indians in one hour. My heart was sad 
for McKay. He good man. Indian like McKay heap. 
But my cousin and his people want plenty goods; no like 
Cai-)pen Thorn ; so Nittiuat say nothing. 

"Bimeby there was big noise like a hundred guns, and 
the shiji was all in pieces, flying through the air like leaves 
on the wind. Mj' cousin's peoi^le were all in pieces too; 
one arm, one leg, one -^iece head. Ugh!" 

"Served them right, too!" ejaculated Charlie. "Is that 
the whole story, old mortality?" 

But Nittinat was silent — overcome, as it seemed by these 
sad reminiscences. He bowed his head upon his breast 
until the extinguisher pointed directly at Fannj-'s nose, as 
her brother mischievously made her aware. When I 
thought that Nittinat had taken time to sufficiently regret 



A CURIOUS INTERVIEW. 91 

Lis cousiu's misfortune in losing- so many young- men, I 
g-eutly renunded him of Charlie's question. 

" Kasiascall's heart was very little when he saw the de- 
struction of his warriors, and heard the wailing- of the 
women and children. To comfort him the six white men 
■v\'ere taken and bound for slaves. When the days of 
mourning -were past, my cousin laid the six white slaves 
in a row, their throats resting on the sharp edge of a 
rock, and set his Indian slaves to saw off their heads with 
a cedar plank. It was a very fine sight; our hearts were 
good; we were comforted." 

As no one uttered an opposing- sentiment, Nittinat, after 
a pause, continued: 

"For many moons we feared the Bostons down on the 
Columbia would come to make war on us; and we went no 
more to trade with any ships. But after a time Kasiascall's 
heart grew big within him. He asked my advice. I said 
' 3'ou are my brother. Go kill all the whites on the Co- 
lumbia.' Then we danced the medicine dance; and Kasi- 
ascall went alone to the country of the Chinooks, to the 
fort of the Boston men. He told the chief of the Bostons 
how the Tonquin was destroyed, with all on board; but he 
kept a dark place in his heart, and his tongue was crooked. 
He said Kasiascall knew not of the treachery of his rela- 
tions, and people, and he said nothing of the six white 
slaves. Then the Boston chief gaA^e him presents, and he 
staid many daj'S at the fort, until he heard that some 
Indians from Sooke were coming there. Fearing- the Sooke 
Indians might have straight tongues, Kasiascall left the 
fort that day, and went among the Klatskenines, and 
stirred them up to take the fort and kill all the Bostons. 
But the chief discovered the plot, and my cousin fled back 
to Neweeta. Ugh ?" 

These events occurred a long time ago," I suggested. 
" Your hearts were dark then, but surely you have a better 
heart now. You would not kill the whites to-day if you 
could ?" 



92 ^ CURIOUS /XTEin'/EW. 

A very expressive "Ugh !" ■vvns tlie only rejoinder. 

" But the Indians I see about here look very comfortable 
and liapp}'. Tliey have good warm blankets, and enough 
to eat." 

"Indian hunt furs to paj' for blanket; Indian catch fish 
for eat. Bime-by furs grow scarce; Avhite man catch fish, 
too. Bime-by Hudson Bay men go Avay; Indian go naked. 
Then come black-gowns (priests, or preachers). He say, 
'Indian pray for Avliat he want.' But that all d — d lie; 
pray one moon — two, three moons, nothing comes. White 
man say to Indian, ' work.' What can Indian do? Indian 
big fool — know nothing." 

" He is making out a case," said Charlie; " but he don't 
look as if lie need concern himself about the future." 

"Ask him if he ever saw an}' white ladies, in that long 
ago time he has been telling us of," whispered Fanny, who 
could not muster courage to address the manikin directly. 
I considered how best to put the desired question, but Nit- 
tinat was beforehand with me. 

"I have seen many things with my e^'es. First came the 
big ships, with wings; and only men came in them. By 
and by came a long, black ship, without sails, or oars, but 
with a great black and white smoke. I went on board this 
vessel with one of my wives, the youngest and j^rettiest; 
and here I saw the first white woman that came to my 
country. I liked the white \voman, and asked her to be 
m}' wife. She laughed, and said, 'go. ask the Cappen.' I 
asked the Capi:)eu, but he would not hear. I offered him 
many skins, and my new wife. He swore at me. I am 
sworn at and laughed at for wanting wife with a white skin. 
"White man take Indian wife when he please. Nittinat has 
many wrongs; yet Nittinat has good heart, all same. 
Bime-by big medicine-man come and make all right. AVhite 
man all melt awaj' like snow on the mountain-side. Indian 
have plenty house, plenty l)lankets, plenty eat — all, every- 
thing, all the time. Good!" 



A Cl'RIOUS INTERVIEW. 93 

"White wives included, I presume. Well,'' said Char- 
lie, " I think this interview might be brought to a close. 
Hold fast to Pierre and I, Fanny, or the wizard may spirit 
you off to his wigwam, to inaugurate the good time coming 
that he speaks of." 

So saying, Charlie rose to his feet, stretched his limbs 
lazily, and turned to disengage his sister's veil from a 
vicious thorn-bush in our way. Not succeeding immedi- 
ately, I lent my assistance, and the delicate tissue being at 
last rescued with some care, turned to say farewell to the 
chief of all the Nittinats, when lo! I addressed nnself to 
space. 

" The old cove has taken himself off as mysteriously as 
he came. That is a confounded good trick; could'nt do it 
better myself. Does anybod}' miss anything?" was Char- 
lie's running comment on the transaction. 

"Can't say that I do, unless it is my luncheon. I'm 
ravenously hungry, and every sandwich gone. Could that 
dreadful old ghoul have eaten those you gave him, Charlie? 
Do you know, I could'nt help thinking he must be a ghost?" 
" Well, the ghost of an Indian could eat, steal, and beg, 
I should think. I felt like rattling his dry bones, when he 
so coolly confessed to the most atrocious murders of white 
men." 

"That is because you are not an Indian, I presume," 
said I, with a heavy sense of conviction about what I gave 
expression to. "Indian virtue is not white men's virtue. 
If it won you rank, and riches, and power, to become a 
mighty slayer, a slayer you would undoubtedly become. A 
man, even an Indian, is what his circumstances make him. 
The only way I can conceive to make a first-class man, is 
to i)lace him under first-class influences. I am generalizing 
now, of course; the exceptions are rare enough to prove 
the rule." 

" I wish I had those spoons," said Fanny, " they would 
be such a curiositv at home." 



94 ^-1 CCR/orS IXTKRVIEW. 

" The spoon I wiali for is one of the vessel's forks, -with 
a bit of roast beef on it. Here, Sis, jump in; we shall be 
late for dinner, and the Captain will call us to account." 

In a few moments we were out of the little cove, and in 
open water of the sound, pulling back toward the harbor, 
where the steamer was lying that had brought ns this sum- 
mer excursion. As w'e came abreast of a certain inlet. 
Fanny cried out, "Look there!" and turning our eyes in 
the direction of her glance, Ave saw the canoe with its 
bronzed crew just disappearing up the narrow^ entrance, 
half-hidden in shrubbery. 

Our adventure was related at dinner in the steamer'sv 
cabin, and various were the conjectures regarding the iden- 
tity of Chief Nittinat. The captain declared his ignorance 
of any such personage. Most of the party were inclined to 
regard the Avhole affair as a practical joke, though who 
could have been the authors of it no one ventured to sa}'. 
It was proposed that another party should repeat the ex- 
cursion on the following day, in order that another oppor- 
tunity might be given the mysterious medicine man to put 
in an appearance. And this, I believe, really was carried 
into effect, but without result, so far as solving the mj'stery 
was concerned. A canoe, similar to the one Ave had seen, 
had been discovered up one of the numerous arms of the 
Sound, but on attempting to overtake it, the pursuing part}' 
had been easily distanced, and the clue lost, so that all 
hope of clearing up the mystery was relinquished. 

One evening, shortly after, Fanny and I sat together in 
the soft, clear moonlight, listening to the dance-music in 
the cabin, and the gentle splash of the waters about the 
vessel's keel. All at once, a canoe-load of Nootkans shot 
across the moon's wake, not fifty yards fiom our anchorage, 
and as suddenly was lost again in shadow. " Fanny," I 
said, "being the only invalid of this party, I feel a good 
deal nervous about these ai^paritions. They are usually 
regarded, I believe, as portentious. Without designing to 



A CURIOUS INTERVIEW. 95 

take advautage of your too sympathizing disposition, I am 
tempted to remind you that if I am ever to have the happi- 
ness of calling 3'our precious self truh* ni}' own, it ought to 
be before the third appearance of the ghostly presence; 
will you condescend to name the day? " 

"I should prefer, Pierre, not to have any ghostly influ- 
ences brought to bear on this occasion. SupjDose we try a 
valse, Avhich I think will tend to dissipate your melancholy 
forebodings." 

I may as well own it here: the little witch could not be 
brought to make any final arrangements, although I did 
entreat her seriously. 

" You must talk about these things when I am at home 
with my papa and mamma," she insisted; and I was com- 
pelled to respect her decision. 

But we have been married almost a 3'ear, and we often 
refer to the strange interview we had with Chief Nittinat. 
Perhaps the Smoke-eller doctrine now j^opular among the 
noi'thern Indians, and which corresponds to our spiritual- 
ism, may have some foundation in similar occurrences 
themselves. Who knows but Nittinat was talking to us 
throuo'h a medium ? 



96 J//'- ELA'S sroRY. 



MR. ELA'S STORY. 

ri^HREE or four j-ears ago, my liusbanJ and I were 
JL making a winter voyage up the Oregon coast. The 
weatlier was not peculiar!}' bad: it was the ordinarj' win- 
ter weather, Avith a quartering wind, giving- the ship an 
awkward motion over an obliquely -rolling sea. Cold, sick, 
thoroughly uncomfortable, with no refuge but the narrow 
and diml^'-lighted state-room, I was reduced in the first 
twenty-four hours to a condition of ignominious helpless- 
ness, hardly willing to live, and not yet fully wishing or 
intending to die. 

In this unhappy frame of mind the close of the second 
weary day found me, when my husband opened our state- 
room door to sa}' that Mr. Ela, of , Oregon, Avas on 

board, and proposed to come and talk to me, in the hope 
of amusing me and making me forget m}' wretchedjiess. 
Submitting rather than agreeing to the proposal, chairs 
were brought and placed just inside the door-way, where 
the light of the saloon lamps shown athwart the counte- 
nance of my self-constituted physician. He was a young 
man, and looked younger than his years; slightly built, 
though possessing a supple, well-knit frame, with hands of 
an elegant shape, fine texture, and great expression. You 
saw at a glance that he had a poet's head, and a poet's sen- 
sitiveness of face; but it was only after observation that 
you saw how much the face was capable of which it did 
not convey, for faces are apt to indicate not so much indi- 
vidual culture as the culture of those with whom we are 
habitually associated. Mr. Ela's face clearly indicated to 
me the intellectual poverty, the want of testheic cultivation 
in his accustomed circle of society, at the same time that 
it suggested possible phases of great beauty, should it ever 



MB. ELA'S STORY. 97 

become j)ossible for certain emotions to be habitually called 
to the surface by sympathy. Evidently a vein of drollery 
in his nature had been better appreciated, and oftener ex- 
hibited to admiring audiences, than any of the finer quali- 
ties of thought or sentiment of which you instinctively 
knew him to be capable; and yet the face j^rotested against 
it, too, by a gentle irony Avith a hint of self-scorn in it, as 
if its owner, in his own estimation, wrote himself a buffoon 
for his condescension. Altogether it was a good face; but 
one to make you wish it were better, since b}^ not being so, 
it was untrue to itself. I remember thinking all this, look- 
ing out with sluggish interest from my berth, while the two 
gentlemen did a little preliminary talking. 

Mr. Ela's voice, I observed, like his face, was suscej^tible 
of great change and infinite modulations. Deep chest 
tones were followed by fineh' attenuated sounds; droning 
nasal tones, by quick and clear ones. The quality of the 
voice was soft and musical; the enunciation slow, often 
emphatic. His manner was illustrative, egotistic, and 
keenly watchful of effects. 

"You never heard the story of my adventure in the 
mountains?" Ela began, turning to me with the air of a 
man who had made up his mind to tell his story. 

" No; please tell it." 

"Well" — running his tapering fingers through his hair 
and pulling it over his forehead — "I started out in life 
with a theory, and it was this: that no young man should 
ask a woman to many him until he had prepared a home 
for her. Correct, wasn't it? I was about nineteen years 
old when I took up some land down in the Rogue River 
Valley, and w^orked away at it with this object." 

"Had you really a wife selected at that age?" 

"No; but it was the fashion in early times in that coun- 
try to maiTy early, and I was getting ready, according to 
my theory; don't you see? I was pretty successful, too; 
had considerable stock, built me a house, made a Hower 
7 



98 '!//>• eljVS story. 

garden for 1113' ^vife, even put up the i^egs or nails she was 
to hang her dresses on. I intended that fall to get on my 
horse, ride through the Wallamet Valley, and find nie my 
girl." 

At the notion of courting in that off-hand, general style, 
both my husband and I laughed doubtingly. Ela laughed, 
too, but as if the recollection pleased him. 

"You think that is strange, do you? 'Twasn't so very 
strange in those days, because girls were scarce, don't you 
see? There was not a girl within forty miles of me; and 
just the thought of one now, as I was fixing those nails to 
hang her garments on; why, it ran just through me like a 
shock of electricity ! 

" Well, as I said, I had about two hundred and fifty head 
of cattle, a house with a garden, a young orchard, and 
vegetables growing; everything in readiness for the wife I 
had counted on getting to helj^ me take care of it. And 
what do you think happened? There came such a plague 
of grasshoppers upon the valley that they destroA'ed ever}' 
green thing : crops, orchard, flowers, grass, everything! 
My stock died, the greater portion of them, and / xvas 
ruined." (Deep bass.) "I considered myself disappointed 
in love, too, because, though I hadn't yet found my girl, I 
knew she was somewhere in the valley waiting for me; and 
I felt somehow, when the grasshoppers ate up every thing, 
as if I had been jilted. Actually, it pierces me with a pang- 
now to think of those useless pegs on which so often my 
imagination hung a pink calico dress and a girl's sun- 
bonnet." 

Knitting his brows, and sighing as he shifted his j^osi- 
tion, Ela once more pulled the hair over his forehead, in 
his peculiar fashion, and went on: 

"I became misanthropic; felt myself badly used. Pack- 
ing up my books and a few other traps, I started for tlie 
mountains with what stock I had left, built myself a fort, 
and played hermit." 



MR. ELA'S STORY. 99 

"Areg-ularforfc?" 

"A stockade eighteen feet high, with an embankment 
four feet high around it, a strong gate, a tent in the middle 
of the inclosure, all my proi^erty, such as books, feed, arms, 
etc., inside." 

" On account of Indians?" 

"Indians and White Men. Yes, I've seen a good many 
Indians through the bead of my rifle. They learned to 
keep away from my fort. There were mining camps down 
in the valley, and you know the hangers-on of those camps'? 
I sold beef to the miners; had plenty of money by me 
sometimes. It was necessary to be strongly forted." 

" What a strang-e life for a boy! What did you do? How 
spend your time?" 

"I herded my cattle, drove them to market, cooked, 
studied, wrote, and indulged in misanthropy, with a little 
rifle practice. By the time I had been one summer in the 
mountains, I had got my hand in, and knew how to make 
money buying up cattle to sell again in the mines." 

" So there was method in your madness — misanthropy, I 
mean ?" 

" Well, a man cannot resign life before he is twenty-one. 
I was doing well, and beginning to think again of visiting 
the Wallametto hunt up my girl. One Sunday afternoon, 
I knew it was Sunda}', because I kept a journal; I was sit- 
ting outside of my fort writing, when a shadow fell across 
the paper, and, looking up, lo! a skeleton figure stood be- 
fore me." (Sepulchral tones, and a pause.) "Used as I 
was to lonely encounters with strange men, my hair stood 
on end as I gazed on the spectre before me. He was the 
merest boy in years; pretty and delicate by nature, and 
then reduced by starvation to a shadow. His story was 
soon told. He had left Boston on a vessel coming out to 
the northwest coast, had been Avrecked at the mouth of the 
Umpqua, and been wandering about in the mountains ever 
since, subsisting as best he could on roots and berries. But 
you are becoming tired?" 



100 'I//'- ELA'S SIVUV. 

"No, I assure you; on the contrary, groAviug deeply in- 
terested." 

" The boy was not a young ■v\oman in disguise, or an}'- 
thing like that, you know" — with an amused look at me. 
"I thoiight 3'ou'd think so; hut as he comes into the storj' 
as a collateral, I just mention his introduction to myself. 
I fed him and nursed him until he was al)le to go to work, 
and then I got Sam Chong Lung to let him take up a claim 
alongside a Chinese camp, promising to favor the Chinaman 
in a beef contract if he was good to the boy. His claim 
proved a good one, and he was making money, when two 
Chinamen stole a lot of horses from Sam Chong Lung, and 
he offered four hundred dollars to Edwards if he would go 
after them and bring them back. Edwards asked my ad- 
vice, and I encouraged him to go, telling him how to take 
and bring back his prisoners." (Reflective pause.) " You 
can't imagine me living alone, now, can you ? Such an ego- 
tistical fellow as I am, and fond of ladies' society. You 
can't believe it, can you ? " 

"Hermits and solitaires are always egotists, I believe. 
As to the ladies, your loneliness was the result of circum- 
stances, as you have explained." 

" "Well, I should have missed Edwards a good deal, if it 
had not been for some singular incidenls which hapi)ened 
during his absence." Ela always accented the last syllable 
of any word ending in e-n-t, like "incident" or "com- 
mencement," giving it besides a i)eculiar nasal sound, 
which Avas sure to secure the attention. The word inci- 
dent, as he pronounced it, produced quite a different efifect 
from the same word spoken in the u?ual style. 

"A man came to my fort one day who was naked and 
starving. He Avas a bad-looking fellow; but a man natur- 
ally does look bad when his clothes are in rags, and his 
bones protruding through his skin. I clothed him, fed 
him, cared for him kindly, until he was able to travel, and 
then he went away. The next Sunday, I was sitting out- 



MR. ELA'S STORY. 101 

side the stockade, as customary, reading some translations 
of the (rreek poets, when, on raising my eyes from the 
book to glance over the approach to my fort— I was always 
on the alert — I beheld a vision. Eemember, I had not 
seen a woman for a year and half ! She was slowly ad- 
vancing, riding with superb grace a horse of great beauty 
and value, richly caparisoned. She came slowly up the 
trail, as if to give me time for thought, and I needed it. 
That incture is still indelibly impressed upon my mind; 
the very flicker of the sunlight and shadow across the road, 
and the glitter of her horse's trappings, as he champed his 
bit and arched his neck with impatience at her restraining 
hand . Are you ver^^ tired ?" asked Ela, suddenly. 

"Never less so in my life; pray go on." 

" You see I had been alone so long, and I am very sus- 
ceptible. That vision coming upon me suddenly as it did, 
in my solitude, gave me the strangest sensations I ever had. 
I was si^ell-bound. Not so she. Reining in her horse be- 
side me, she squared around in her saddle, as if asking- 
assistance to dismount. Struggling with my embarrass- 
ment, I helped her down, and she accepted my invitation 
into the fort, signifying, at the same time, that she wished 
me to attend to stripping and feeding her horse. This 
gave us mutually an opportunity to prepare for the coming- 
interview. 

" AVhen I returned to my guest, she had laid aside her 
riding-habit and close sun-bonnet, and stood revealed a 
young, beautiful, elegantlj'-dressed woman. To my unac- 
customed eyes, she looked a goddess. Her figure was 
noble; her eyes large, black, and melting; her hair long 
and curling; her manner easy and attractive. She was 
hungry, she said; would I give her something to eat? And, 
while I was on hospitable cares intent, she read to me some 
of my Greek poems, especially an ode of one of the votaries 
of Diana, with comments by herself. She was a splendid 
reader. Well," said Ela, slowly, with a furtive glance at 



102 ^V/,'. ELA'S STORY. 

me, unci in liis peculiar nasal tones, " yon can guess wlietlier 
a young man, used to the mountains, as I was, and who 
had been disappointed and jilted as I had been, enjoyed 
this sort of thing or not. It wasn't in my line, you see, 
this entertaining goddesses; though, doubtless, in this way, 
before now, men have entertained angels unawares. You 
shall judge whether I did. 

" What with reading, eating together, singing — she sang 
' Kate Kearney ' for me, and her voice was glorious — our 
acquaintance ripened very fast. Finally, I conquered my 
embarrassment so far as to ask her some questions about 
herself, and she told me that she was of a good New Eng- 
land family, raised in aflluence, well educated, accom- 
plished, but by a freak of fortune, reduced to poverty: that 
she had come to California resolved to get money, and had 
got it. She went from camp to camp of the miners with 
stationery, and other trifling articles needed by them; sold 
them these things, wrote letters for them, sang to them, 
nursed them when sick, or carried letters express to San 
Francisco, to be mailed. For all these services, she re- 
ceived high prices, and had also had a good deal of gold 
given to her in specimens. I asked her if she liked that 
kind of a life, so contrar}' to her early training. She an- 
swered me : ' It's not what we choose that we select to do 
in this world, but what chooses us to do it. I have made a 
competency, and gained a rich and varied experience. If 
life is not what I once dreamed it was, I am content.' But 
she sighed as she said it, and I couldn't believe in her 
content." 

" You have not told us j-et what motives brought her to 
you," I remarked, in an interval of silence. 

"No; she hadn't told me herself, then. By and by, I 
asked her, in my green kind of way, what brought her to 
see me. I never shall forget the smile Avith which she 
turned to answer me. We were sitting quite close: it 
never was in my nature, Avhen once acquainted with a 



3IB. ELA'S STOBT. 103 

woman, to keep away from her. Her garments brushed my 
knees; occasionally, in the enthusiasm of talk, I leaned 
near her cheek. You know how it was. I was thinking of 
the useless pegs in my house down in the valle}-: 'You 
will be disappointed,' she said, ' when you learn that I 
came to do you a real service.' And then she went on to 
relate that, having occasion to pass the night at a certain 
l^laee not many miles away, she had overheard through the 
thin partitions of the hoiise, the description of my fort, an 
account of my wealth, real or supposed, and a plan for nij 
murder and robbery. The would-be murderer was so de- 
scribed as to make it quite certain that it was he whom I 
had fed, clothed, and sent away rejoicing, only a few days 
previous. I was inclined to treat the matter as a jest; but 
she awed me into belief and humility at once b}^ the maj- 
esty with which she reproved my unbelief: 'A woman does 
not trifle with subjects like this; nor go out of her Avay to 
tell travelers tales. I warn you. Good bye.' 

" After this she would not stay, though I awkwardl}' ex- 
pressed my regret at her going. By her command I sad- 
dled her horse, and helped her mount him. Once in the 
saddle, her humor turned, and she reminded me that I had 
not invited her to return. She said she ' could fancy that 
a week of reading, talking, riding, trout-fishing, and ro- 
mancing generally, up there in those splendid woods, 
might be very charming. Was I going to ask her to 
come ?' 

"I didn't ask her. A'young man with a reputation to 
sustain up there in the mountains, couldn't invite a young- 
lady to come and stop a week with him, could he ? I must 
have refused to invite her, now, mustn't I ?"' 

The perfect ingenuousness M'ith which Ela put these 
questions, and the plaintive appeal against the hard re- 
quirements of social laws in the mountains, which was 
expressed in his voice and accent, were so indescribably 
ludicrous that both my husband and myself laughed con- 



104 ^tli- ELA'S STORY. 

vulsively. "I never tell ni}- wife that part of the stoiy, 
for fear she might not believe in my regard for apj^ear- 
jinces, knowing how fond I am of ladies' society'. And 
the struggle icas great; I assure you, it was great. 

" So she Avent away. As she rode slowly down the trail, 
she turned and kissed her hand to nie, with a gesture of 
such grace and sweetness that I thrilled all over. I've 
never been able to quite forgive myself for what hap- 
pened afterward. She came back, ar.d I drove her atcay ! 
Usually, when I tell that to women, they call me mean and 
ungrateful; but a young man living alone in the mountains 
has his reputation to look after — now, hasn't he? That's 
what I ought to have done — now, wasn't it — what I always 
sa,y I did do. It was the right thing to do under the cir- 
cumstances, wasn't it ?" 

While we had our laugh out, Ela shifted position, sho.ok 
himself, and thridded his soft, light hair with his slender 
fingers. He was satisfied with his success in conveying an 
impression of the sort of care he took of his reputation. 
"Now, then, I was left alone again, in no pleasant frame 
of mind. I couldn't doubt what my beautiful visitant had 
told me, and the thought of my murder all planned out was 
depressing, to say the least of it. But, as sure as I am tell- 
ing you, the departure of my unknown friend depressed 
me more than the thought of my possible murder. The 
gate barred for the night, I sat and looked into my lire for 
hours, thinking wild thoughts, and hugging to m}- lonely 
bosom an imaginary form. The solitude and the sense of 
loss were awful. 

" This was Sunday night. Tuesday morning I received a 
visit from three or four mounted men, one of whom was my 
former naked and hungry protege. He did not now try to 
conceal his character from me, but said he wasgoingdown to 
clean out the Chinese camp, and projiosed to me to join 
him, saying that when Edwards returned M'ith the horses 
we would pay him the $400, as agreed by Sam ChougLung. 



MR. ELA'S STORY. 105 

I was on my guard; but told him I would have iiotluDg to 
do with robbing- the Chinese; that they were my friends 
and customers, and he had better let them alone; after 
Avhich answer he went oft*. That afternoon, Edwards came 
in with his prisoners and horses. He was very tired, on 
account of having traveled at night, to prevent the rescue 
of his prisoners by other vagabonds, and to avoid the In- 
dians. 

"You will understand how the presence of the horses 
increased my peril, as there was no doubt the scoundrels 
meant to take them. It wouldn't do either to let Edwards go 
on to the Chinese camp; so I persuaded him to wait another 
day. We brought the prisoners, bound, inside the fort, 
and took care of the horses. I said nothing to Edwards of 
my suspicions. 

"About dnsk, -mj expected visitor came. He appeared 
to have been drinking; and, after some mumbling talk, laid 
down inside the fort, near the gate. I made the gate fast, 
driving the big* wooden pins home Avith an axe; built up a 
great fire, and sent Edwards to bed in the tent. The Chi- 
nese prisoners were already asleep on the ground. Then I 
sat down on the opi^osite side of the fire, facing the gate, 
placed my double-barreled rifle beside me, and mounted 
guard." 

" Had you no arms but your rifle?" asked my husband, 
anxiously. 

" I wanted none other, for we understood each other — 
my rifle and I." 

"AVhat were you looking for; what did you expect? A 
hand-to-hand encounter with these men ? " was my next 
inquiry. 

" It seemed most likely that he had planned an attack on 
the fort. If so, his associates would be waiting outside for 
a signal. He had intended, when he laid down close to the 
gate, to open it to them; but when I drove the pins in so 
tight, I caught a gleam from his eyes that was not a drunken 



lOG .1//.'. ELA's STonr. 

one, and lie knew that I suspected liim. After that, it was 
a contest of skill aud will between us. He was waiting- his 
opportunity, and so was I. 

"You think I've a quick ear,, don't yon? You see what 
niy temperament is; all sense, all consciousness. ]\[v hear- 
ing was cultivated, too, by listening for Indians. "Well, by 
aud by, I detected a very stealthy movement outside the 
fort,, and then a faint chirrup, such as a young scpiirrel 
might make. In an instant the drunken man sjDrang up; 
and I covered him with my rifle, cocked. He saw the move- 
ment and drew his pistol, but not before I had ordered him 
to throw down his arms, or die." 

It is impossi])le to convey, l)y types, an idea of Ela's 
manner or tone as he pronoiineed these last words. They 
sounded from the bottom of his chest, and conveyed in the 
utterance a distinct notion that death was what was meant. 
Hearing him repeat the command, it was easy to Ijelieve 
that the miscreant dared not do more than hesitate in his 
obedience. After a moment's silence — which was the cli- 
max to his rendering of the scene — he continued : 

" I havn't told you, yet, how the man looked. He was a 
tall, swarthy, black-bearded fellow, who might have been 
handsome once, but who had lost the look which distin- 
guishes men in sympathy with their kind; so that then he 
resembled some cruel beast, in the shape of a man, yet 
whose disguise fitted him badly. His eyes burned like 
rubies, out of the gloom}' caverns under his shaggy ej-e- 
brows'. His lips were drawn apart, so that his teeth glis- 
tened. Th* man's whole expression, as he stood there, 
glaring at me, was Hate and Murder. 

"My eye never Aviuked, while he hesitated. He saw 
that, and it made him quail. "With my finger on the trig- 
ger, I kept my rifle leveled, while he threw down his arms 
— pistols and knife — with a horrible oath. With the knife 
in his hand, he made a movement, as if he would rush on 
me; but changed his purpose iu time to stop my fire. His 



MB. ELA'S SrOBY. 107 

cursiny was awfvil; the foam flew from his mouth. He de- 
manded to be let out of the fort; accused me of bad inten- 
tions toward him, and denounced me for a robber and 
murderer. To all his ravings I had but one answer: To 
be quiet, to obey me, and he might live; dare to disobey 
me, and he should die. 

" I directed him to sit down on the opposite side of the 
fire — not to move from that one sjDot — not to make a doubt- 
ful motion. And then I told him I knew what he was, and 
what he had meant to do. When he became convinced of 
this, he bi-oke down utterly, and wept like a child, declar- 
ing that now he knew my pluck, and I had been the first 
man ever to get the best of him, he loved me like a brother! 

" There was a long night before us, and I had got to sit 
there, with my rifle across my knees, till morning. I could 
move a little, to stir up or add to the fire; but he could have 
no liberty whatever. The restraint was horrible to him. 
One moment he laughed uneasily — another cursed or cried. 
Tt was a strange scene, wasn't it ? Finally, to pass the 
time, I asked him to relate the history of his life. He 
Avanted first to shake hands, for the love he bore me. 
Touching my rifle, significantly, I pointed to a stick lying 
across the fire between us. ' That is our boundary line; 
don't go to reaching your hands over that.' Then he 
sank into a fit of gloom and sullenness. 

" "NYe must have remained thus silent until near mid- 
night. Several times I observed him listening to slight 
sounds outside the fort. But his associates must have 
given up the game and gone off, for, as the morning hours 
approached, he ceased to listen, and everything remained 
quiet. His head was bent forward, his chin resting on his 
breast, the shaggy beard spreading over it like a mantle." 

" How horrible it must have been to keep such company. 
"Why not call on Edwards? " 

" The boy was worn out, and there was no need. I was 
very much strung up, too; so that the exhaustion of sleep- 



108 -V7?. ELA'S STORY. 

lessness, fatigue, or excitement was not felt or noticed. But 
he suft'eretl. He was like a hj'ena caged, though he shoAved 
it only by involuntary movements and furtive glances. 
Fiuall}', he could bear it no longer, and entreated me pite- 
ously, abjectly, to give him him his freedom or blow out 
his brains. I told him he couldn't have his freedom just 
yet; but he knew how to get his brains blown out, if he de- 
sired it. Then followed more execration, ending in renewed 
protestations of regard for me. I reminded him that talk- 
ing would relieve the irksomeness of his jDosition, again 
inviting him to tell me his history. He replied that if he 
talked about himself, he Avould be sure to get excited and 
move about; but I ^jromised to remind him. 

"Once on the subject of himself, it seemed to have a 
fascination for him. What he told me was, in substance, 
this: He had been honestly raised, by good, affectionate 
parents, in the State of Mis.souri; loved a young girl iu the 
town where he lived; and, wishing to marry her, had re- 
solved to go to California, to make the necessary monej', 
quickly. He was successful; returned full of joyful anti- 
cipations, and arrived at an old neighbor's, a few miles 
from his home, having hardh^ tasted food or taken any rest 
the previous twenty-four hours. 

"While he hastily' ate some breakfast and listened to the 
friendly gossip of his entertainers, one name, the name of 
her he loved, his promised wife, was mentioned. She ivaa 
married. He staggered to his feet, asking the name of her 
husband; and when he heard it, he knew he had been be- 
trayed by that man. He could recall a strange sensation 
in his brain, as if molten lead had been poured into it; that 
was the last of his recollections. Afterward, he learned 
that he had been weeks in a brain fever. 

"When he had recovered, some of his old friends, think- 
ing to do him honor, made an evening party for him. To 
this party came his love, and her husband; his betrayer. 
When she gave her hand to welcome him home, and looked 



I 



MR. ELA\S STORY. 109 

in his eyes, lie knew that she too had been betrayed. Again 
the molten lead seemed poured i;pon liis brain. Turning 
to leave the room, fate placed in his path the man he now 
hated with a deadly hatred. "With one blow of a knife, he 
laid hiin dead at his feet. A few hours later, in the despe- 
ration of trying to escape, lie killed two other men. Then 
he eluded his pursuers, and got back to California. Since 
then he had reveled in murder, and every species of crime. 
Once he had seen, in the streets of Sacramento, the woman 
he loved. Up to that moment, it had never occurred to 
him that she was free. Following her to her home, he 
forced himself into lier house, and reminded her of their 
former relations. Slie had denied all knowledge of him, 
finally calling upon her husband to satisfy him. The hus- 
band ordered him out of the house, and he sliot him. Then 
the Vigilantes made it hazardous to remain in California. 
He fled to the mountains, where he was nearly starved out, 
when I took him in and fed and clothed him. 

" Such was his story. My blood curdled in my veins, as 
I listened to the recitals of his atrocities. ' In God's 
name,' I said, ' who are you — what is your name?' 'I am 
Boone Helm.' " 

" Who was Boone Helm ?" I asked. 

• "One of the greatest desperadoes that ever was on this 
coast. He met his fate, afterward, up east of the mount- 
ains.' 

" What did you do with him? AVhat could you do with 
him ?" 

"You ought to have shot him while yoix had him," my 
husband suggested. 

"/ didn't want to shoot him. He said, if I had been a 
coward, I would have killed him. To confess the truth, 
the wretch appealed to my sympathies. I don't think he 
had ever been sane since the time when he felt the ' molten 
lead poured into his brain.' I knew somebody was sure to 
kill him, before long; so, when morning came, I called 



110 Mli. ELA'S' STOHr. 

Edwards to oi^eu the gate; and, wlton it was niil)ari-ed, 
escorted niv visitor out, tellinji;- liim that there was not 
room enough in tliat part of the country for both of us, 
and that the next time I pointed my ritle at him it would 
be to shoot. I never saw him again." 

" Then he did not molest the Chinese camp ?" 

"No. Edwards got his four hundred dollars, and went 
home to Boston." 

There fell a silence upon us, and, through my open door, 
I could see that the cabin was nearly deserted. Ela seemed 
wearied — sighed, and made a movement, as if to go. 

"What about your Guardian Angel?" my husband 
asked. " You have not told us about her second coming." 

"I always say that she didn't come; or else I say that 
she came, and I drove her away. That is proper; isn't it, 
now?" glancing at me. 

" But /want to know if you have seen her — if you never 
met her anywhere in the world — since that time. I have a 
right to be curious — yes, or no?" I urged, laughingly. 

"How do you feel, now?" — with a light laugh and pe- 
culiar change of expression. 

" O, better; a great deal better. To be perfectly cured, 
I onl}- need to hear the sequel." 

"I may 'as well tell it, I suppose. It has been running 
in my head all day. \Youldn't want my wife to know it. 
Didn't think of meeting her when I came down to 'Frisco. 
You see, I've been in Oregon a long Avhile — never traveled 
on a railroad in my life — wanted to see something of the 
great outside world — and so, ran down to the great city to 
see the sights. The first thing I did, I went up to Colfax, 
on the cars; and while I was up there, the engineer invited 
me to take a ride on the engine — a special one. Now, I 
knew that he meant to astonish me, because he thought I 
was green; and I didn't know, reall}', how fast the thing- 
ought to run. But we came down the grade with a speed 
that was ter-rif-ic! — more than a mile a minute, the engi- 



MR. ELA'S STORY. HI 

iieer saitl. When we got to Lincoln, the fellow asked me, 
with his sui^erior sort of smile, ' How I liked that rate of 
travel?' I told him I Wked that pretty well; 'but, I sup- 
pose, wheu you want to make time, you can travel at a 
considerably more accelerated rate of locomotion ?' " 

Huw we laughed at the natural drollery of the man, the 
deliberate utterance, the unsophisticated air. While we 
laughed, he prepared himself to finish his story. 

"It was only day before yesterday," he said, "that I met 
her. I happened to be in the parlor of the hotel when she 
came in. At first, I wasn't certain of its being her; but, as 
I watched her, I became certain of it. And she recognized 
me; I felt certain of that, too. It was in the early part of 
the evening, and I had to wait until the people in the par- 
lor would disperse. She saw what I was Avaitiug for, and 
staj'ed, too; she told me with her eyes that she remembered. 
After a while she went to the piano, and played and sang 
'Kate Kearney.' Then I was satisfied that she would not 
leave me before I had spoken to her. As soon as the op- 
portunity came, we confessed ourselves." 

■'Was she married? was she happy?" 

"She was married, yes. Happy? she told me, as she 
had once before, that she was ' content.' She said it with 
a sigh, as she did the first time; and I doubted her as I did 
then. But they are putting out the lights. There is al- 
ways, in this world, somebody going around, putting out 
our lights. Good- night." 

"Good-night." 



112 ON THE SANDS. 



ON 'JHE SANDS. 

I "WAS summering at our Oregon Newport, known to us 
by the aboriginal name of Clatsop. Had a balloonist, 
uninstructed in the geograplij- and topography of this \)oy- 
tion of the Pacific coast, dropped down among us, his 
impression would have been that he had alighted in a mili- 
tary encampment, veiy happily chosen, as militarj^ encamp- 
ments usually are. 

Given, one long, low, wliitewashed house enclosed b}'' 
whitewashed pickets; a grou]-) of tents outside the enclosure 
and on the bank of a beautiful graveled-bottom, tree-shad- 
owed stream, and you have the brief summing up of ac- 
commodations for summer visitors at Clatsop. The plentiful 
sprinkling of army buttons among the guests — for there are 
two forts within a three hours' ride of this beach — tend to 
confirm the impression of military possession. Besides, 
our host of the whitewashed hotel is a half-breed; and there 
is enougli of the native element hanging about the place, 
picking berries and digging clams, to suggest an Indian 
family where a temporary station might be demanded. It 
Avould only be by peeping inside those tents where ladies 
and children are more numerous than bearded men, that 
one could be convinced of the gypsy nature of this encamp- 
ment; though, to be sure, one need not press inside to find 
them, for the gay campers are sauntering about in all direc- 
tions, ladies with their escorts, children with their nurses, 
parties returning from boating or fishing, or riding or 
bathing: everybody living out in the 02)en air the wliole day 
tlirough on one pretense or another, ;ind only repairing to 
the hotel at meal times, Avhen the exquisite dishes prepared 
by French halt-breeds suffer the most instant demolition — 
such hunger does open air inspire. 



ON THE SANDS. 113 

I had come liere just iuvalid enough to be benefited by 
our primitive style of living; not too delicate to endure it, 
nor too robust to enjoy the utter vagabondism of it. There 
had been no necessity upon us to ape fashionable manners; 
no obligation to dress three times a da.y; no balls to weary 
ourselves with at night. Therefore this daily recurring pic- 
nic was just sufficient for our pln^sical recreation, while our 
mental jDowers took absolute rest. For weeks I had arisen 
ever}' morning to a breakfast of salmon-trout. French 
coffee [an lait), delicious bread, and fresh berries; and 
afterwards to wander about in the cool sea-fog, well wrap- 
ped up in a water-proof cloak. Sometimes we made a 
boating party up the lovely Neah-can-a-cum, pulling our 
boat along under the overhanging alders and maples, 
frightening the trout into their hiding-places under the 
banks, instead of hooking them as was our ostensible de- 
sign. The limpid clearness of the water seemed to reflect 
the trees from the very bottom, and truly made a medium 
almost as transparent as air, through which the pebbles at 
the greatest depth appeared within reach of our hands. A 
morning idled away in this manner, and an afternoon spent 
in seeing the bathers — I never trust my easily curdled blood 
to the chill of the sea — and in walking along the sands with 
a friend, or dreaming quietly b}^ myself as I watched the 
surf rolling in all the way from Tilaraook Head to Cape 
Disappointment, — these were m}' daily labors and recrea- 
tions. The arrival of a bundle of letters, or, still better, 
of a new visitor, made what variet}^ there was in our life. 

I had both of these excitements in one day. One of my 
correspondents had written: "I hope to see you soon, and 
to have the opportunity, long sought, of telling yon some 
of the experiences of my early life. When I promised you 
this I had not anticipated the pleasure of talking over the 
recollections of my youth while listening with you to the 
monotone of the great Pacific, whose ' ever, forever' is more 
significant to me than to most lovers of its music. I never 



114 OX THE SANDS. 

gaze ujjou its restless waves, nor hear the sound of their 
ripple on the sands, or their thunder on the rocks without 
being reminded of one episode in niv life peculiarly agitat- 
ing to remember; but perhaps when I have told it to you, 
yoii may have j^ower to exercise the restless spirit which 
rises in me at the recollection." 

So here was promise of the intellectual aliment I had 
begun to crave after all these weeks of physical, without 
mental, action. I folded my letter with a feeling of self- 
congratulation, and turned to watch the movements of a 
newly arrived party for whom our half-breed host was 
spreading a tent, and placing in it rather an extra amount 
of furniture; for, be it known to the uninitiated, we had 
platform floors under our tents, real bedsteads, dressing- 
bureaus, rugs, and other comforts to match. That our new 
arrival exceeded us in elegant conveniences was, of course, 
duly noted by such idlers as we. 

The party consisted of a lady, a little girl of ten, and a 
Kanaka servant. The lady's name, we learned, was Mrs. 
Sancy, and she was from the Sandwich Islands. More than 
that no one was informed. "NYe discussed her looks, her 
manners, her dress, and her probable circumstances, as we 
sal around the camp-fire that evening, after the way of idle 
peojole. It occurred to me, as I glanced toward her tent 
door, illuminated by our blazing fire, and saw her regarding 
the weird scene with evident admiration of its picturesque- 
ness, to ask her to come and sit with us and help us eat 
roast potatoes — roasted as they cook pigs in the Islands, by 
covering up in the ground with hot stones. The fact that 
the potatoes, and the butter which went with them, were 
purloined tfrom our host's larder, gave a special flavor to 
the feast — accompanied as it was, too, by instrumental and 
vocal music, and enlivened by sallies of wit. 

Mrs. Sancy seemed to enjoy the novelty of her surround- 
ings, contributing her cpiota to the general fund of mirth 
and sparkling talk, and I congratulated myself on having 



Oli THE SAXDS. 115 

acquired an interesting acquaintance, whose cheerfulness, 
notwithstanding the i)artial mourning of her dress, prom- 
ised well for its continuance. Had she been sad or re- 
served she certainly would not have been sought as she was 
by our pleasure-loving summer idlers, consequent^ my 
chances of becoming intimate with her would have been 
greatl}' abridged. As she was, she soon became, without 
question, one of the chief social attractions ; easily falling 
into our vagabond ways, yet embellishing them with so nuxch 
grace and elegance that they became doubly precious to us 
on account of the new charm imparted to them. All the 
things any of us could do, Mrs. Saucy could do better; and 
one thing she could do that none of the rest of us could, 
which was to swim out and float herself in on a surf-board, 
like a native island woman; and seeing Mrs. Sancy do this 
became one of the daily sensations of Clatsop Beach. 

I had known Mrs. Sancy about one week, and came to 
like her extremely, not only for her brilliant, social quali- 
ties, but on account of her native originality of thought, 
and somewhat peculiar culture. I say peculiar, because 
her thinking and reading seemed to be in the byways ratber 
than the highways of ordinary culture. If she made a figure 
of speech, it was something noticeably original; if she 
quoted an author, it was one unfamiliar though forcible. 
And so she constantly supplied my mind with novelties 
which I craved, and became like a new education to me. 
One forenoon, a misty one, we were out on the beach alone, 
wrapped up in water-proofs, pacing up and down the sands, 
and watching the grey sullen sea, or admiring the way in 
which the masses of fog roll in among the tojDS of the giant 
firs on Tilamook Head, and were torn into fras^^meuts, and 
tangled among them. 

" You never saw the like of this in the islands?" I said, 
meaning the foggy sea, and the dark, fir-clad mountains. 

"I have seen Oiiis before; " she answered, waving her hand 
to indicate the scene as we then beheld it. "You look sur- 



IIG ON THE SANDS. 

prised, but I am familiar uith every foot of tins ground. I 
liave lived j^eurs in this nei^lihorliood— right over there, in 
fact, under the Head. This sj^ot has, iu truth, a strong fas- 
cination for me, and it M'as to see it once more that I made 
the vo^'age." 

"You lived in this place, and liked it years ago! How 
strange! It is but a wilderness still, though a pleasant one, 
I admit." 

She gave me a playfully superior smile: " We are apt to 
think ourselves the discoverers of every country where we 
chance to be set down; and so Adam thought he Avas the 
first man on the earth, though his sons went out and found 
cities were they learned the arts of civilization. So birth, 
and love, and death, never cease to be miracles to us, not- 
withstanding the millions who have been boi*n, and loved, 
and died, before our experience began." 

"But how did it happen," I urged, unable to repress my 
curiosity, "that you lived here, in this place, years ago? 
That seems so strange to me. " 

"My parents brought me here when a little child. It is 
a common enough history. My mother was an enthusiast 
Avith l)rain, who joined her fortunes to those of an enthu- 
siast withovit brain, and emigrated to this coast when it was 
an Indian country, iu the vain hope of doing good to the 
savages. They only succeeded in doing harm to themselves, 
and indirectly, harm to the savages also. The spirit of the 
man became embittered, and the mean traits of his nature 
asserted themselves, and wreaked their malice, as is custom- 
ary with mean natures, on the nearest or most inoffensive 
object. My poor mother! Maternity Avas marred for you 
by fear and pain and contempt; and whatever errors j'our 
child has fallen into, were an evil inheritance that only years 
of suflt'ering and discipline could eradicate." 

As Mrs. Sancy pronounced the last sentence, she seemed 
for the moment to have forgotten my presence, and stood, 
looking off over the calm grey sea, with absent unrecogniz- 



ox THE SAXDS. 117 

ing gaze. After a brief silence she turned to me with a 
smile: "Pardon my mental desertion. It is not good to 
talk of our own lives. We all become Adams again, and 
iamgine ourselves sole in the universe." 

On this hint I changed the conversation, and we returned 
to the hotel to lunch, after which, I saw no more of Mrs. 
Sancy for that day. 

That afternoon, my correspondent, Mr. Kittredge arrived; 
and as it was bright and sunny after the fog, we took a boat, 
and pulled along under the alders that shade the Neah-can- 
a-cum. It was there that I listened to this story: 

" "While I was still a young man, nearly fifteen years ago, 
I floated on this stream, as we are doing to-day. My com- 
panion was a young girl whom I shall call Teresa. She was 
very young, I remember now with sorrow, and very beauti- 
ful; though beaidi/ul is not so much the word to describe 
her as charming — magnetic, graceful, intelligent. A lithe, 
rather tall figure, a high-bred, sensitive, fine face, and pleas- 
ing manners. She seemed older than she really was, on 
account of her commanding physique and distinguished 
manner. 

"I wall not go over the details of our acquaintance, which 
ripened rapidly into love; — -so I thought. This was a new 
country then, even more emphatically that it is now; new 
with the charm of novelty — not new because it had ceased 
to progress, as is now the case. Scattered around here 
W'ithin a radius of a dozen miles were half-a-dozen other 
young men like myself, who had immigrated to the far west, 
in the spirit of romantic adventure; and once here, were 
forced to do whatever came to our hands to gain a subsist- 
ence. I lived on a farm which I improved, keeping house 
quite by myself, and spending my leisure hours in study. 
Of course, the other young men, similarly Srituated, often 
visited me, and we usually talked over authors, or such 
questions of the day as we were familiar with or interested 
in. 



118 ox THE SANDS. 

" But one eveiiiug love was the theme of our conversation, 
and incidently, Teresa's name was mentioned among iis. I 
don't know who first uttered it, but I observed at once, that 
the faces of all three of my companions betrayed an inter- 
est too strong and too peculiar to be attributed to an or- 
dinarj' acquaintanceship with the subject of our remarks. 
For myself, I felt m}' own face flushing hotly, as a horrible 
suspicion seized my consciousness, becoming on the instant, 
conviction too painful to endure. 

"You being a woman, cannot imagine the situation. I 
believed myself to be Teresa's accepted lover; and so I knew 
intuitively, did all my three companions; their faces re- 
vealing theif thoughts to me, as did mine to them. "What- 
ever you women do in the presence of your rivals, I know 
not. Men rage. It is not often, either, that a man en- 
counters more than one rival at a time. But three! — each 
of us poor rivals saw three rivals before him. "Whatever of 
friendship had hitherto existed among us was forgotten iu 
the extreme anguish of the moment, and we sat glaring at 
each other in silence, with heaving chests and burning 
brows. 

"All but Charlie Darling — darling Charlie, we used to 
call him — his face was deathly white, and his eyes glowed 
like a panther's in the dark. Yet he was the first to re- 
cover himself. ' Boys,' said he, ' we ought not to have 
brought a lady's name into the discussion; but since Teresa's 
has been mentioned, we may as well have an understand- 
ing. I consider the young lady as engaged to me, and you 
will please remember that fact when ^-ou are talking of her.' 

" He said it bravel}', proudly, though his lip trembled a 
little, but he eyed us unflinchingly. "N^o one replied for 
some moments. Then Tom Allen, a big clumsy, good- 
hearted, but conceited fellow, lifted his eyes slowly, and 
answered with a hysterical laugh: ' You may be her darling 
Charlie, but I'll be d — d if I am not to be her husliand ! ' 

" This was the match to the powder. Charlie, myself. 



ON THE SANDS. 119 

and Harry King', each sprang simultaneously forward, as 
if we meant to choke poor Tom for his words. Again 
Charlie was the first to use reason: 

'"Hold, boys;' cried he hoarsely; 'let us take a little 
time to reflect. Two of us have declared ourselves to be 
engaged to Teresa. Let us hear if she contemplates mar- 
rying King and Kittredge, also. What do you say, King?' 

'"I say yes! ' thundered King, bending his black brow^s, 
and bringing down his fist on the table by Avh;ch he stood. 

" 'And /say, I contemplate marrj'ing her,' was my an- 
swer to Charlie's challenge. 

" Charlie flung himself into a chair, and covered his face 
with his hands. The action touched some spring in our 
ruder natures Avhich responded in sympath}- for our favorite, 
and had the effect to calm us, in manner at least. I mo- 
tioned the others to sit dow'n, and addressed myself to 
Charlie Darling. 'See here, Charlie?' I said, 'it seems 
that Teresa has been playing us false. A girl who could be 
engaged to four young men at once cannot be worth the 
regards of any of us. Let us investigate the matter, and 
if she is truly guilt}^ of such falsehood, let us one and all 
quit her forever without a w^ord of explanation. What do 
you say? do you agree to that? ' 

" 'How are you going to investigate?" asked Tom Allen, 
roughly. ' Have not we each declared that she was com- 
mitted to us individually, and what more can be said?' 

" 'It appears incredible to me that any girl, much less a 
girl like Teresa, could so compromise her self-respect as to 
encourage four suitors, each in such a manner as that he 
expected to marr}' her. It is so strange that I cannot be- 
lieve it, except each man swears to his statement. Can we 
all swear to it?' 

" I laid my little pocket-bible on the table, and set the 
example of taking an oath to the effect that Teresa had en- 
couraged me to believe that she meant to marry me. King 
and Allen followed with a similar oath. Charlie Darling- 



120 ON THE SAXDS. 

Avas the last to take the oath; but as he did so, a j>leam of 
j^ladiioss biolce over his pale, handsome face; for he could 
Avord his oath diflerently from ours. ' I swear before these 
witnesses and Almighty God,' said Charlie, ' that Teresa 
Biyant is my jvomUed wife.' 

"'That takes the Avind out of our sails,' remarked Allen. 

'"Do 3''ou allow other men to kiss your promised wife?' 
asked King, with a sneer. 

"Charlie sprang' at King, and had his hand on his throat 
in an instant; but Allen and I interfered to part them. It 
was no difficult matter, for Darling, excited as he was, felt 
the force of my observations on the quarrel. I said: ' Shall 
a trifling girl make us enemies, when she has so behaved 
that no one of us can trust her. You, Darling, do not, can- 
not have confidence in her promise, after all you have this 
night learned. You had best accept my first suggestion, 
and join with the rest of us in renouncing her forever and 
at once.' 

"'That /will not,' broke out King, vehemently'. 'Her 
word is no better than her acts, and I have as much right 
to her as Charlie Darling, or either of you, and I'll not give 
uji the right to a man of j'ou.' 

'"We'll have to fight a four-cornered duel,' remarked 
Tom Allen, beginning to see the ludicrous side of the affair. 
' Shall we choose up, two on a side?' 

"'I will withdraw my pretensions,' I reiterated, ' if the 
others will do so, or even if King and Allen will quit the 
field to Charlie, who feels himself bound by Teresa's prom- 
ise to him.' 

" 'I have said I would not withdraw,' replied King, sul- 
lenly. And thus we contended, hot-browed and angry- 
voiced, for more than an hour. Then rough but practical 
Tom proposed a scheme, which was no less than to compel 
Teresa to decide between us. After long deliberation, an 
agreement was entered into, and I hope I shall not shock 
you too much when I tell you what it was." 



OJSr THE SANDS. 121 

Kittredge paused, and looked at me doubtiugly. I 
glanced aside at the over-lianging trees, the glints of sun- 
shine on the bank, a brown bird among the leaves, at any- 
thing, rather than him, for he was living over again the ex- 
citement of that time, and bis face was not pleasant to 
study. After a little waiting, I answered: 

"I must know the remainder of the story, since I know 
so much; what did you agree upon?' 

"A plan was laid by which Teresa should be confronted 
with her four lovers, and forced to explain her conduct. 
To carry out our design it was necessary to use artifice, and 
I was chosen as the one who should conduct the affair. I 
invited her to accompany me to a neighboi'ing farm-house 
to meet the young folks of the settlement. There was 
nothing unusual iii this, as in those primitive times great 
latitude was granted to young people in their social inter- 
course. To mount her horse and ride several miles to a 
neighbor's house with a single escort, not to return until 
far into the night, was the common privilege of an}' young- 
lady, and therefore there was no difficulty about obtaining 
either her consent or that of lier parents to my j^roposition. 

"We set off just at sunset, riding along the beach some 
distance, admiring the gorgeous western sky, the peaceful 
sea, and watching the sand-pipers skating out on the wet 
sands after every receding wave. I had never seen Teresa 
more beautiful, more sparkling, or more fascinating in 
every Avay; and my heart grew ' very little' as the Indians 
say. It was impossible to accuse her even in my thoughts, 
while under that bewitching influence. She was so full of 
life and vivacity that she did not observe the forced de- 
meanor I wore, or if she did, had too much tact to seem to 
do so. As for me, guarded both by my bidden suspicions 
and by my promise to my friends, I uttered no word of ten- 
derness or admiration with my tongue, whatever my eyes 
may have betrayed. 

" The road we were going led past my house. "When we 



122 ON THE SANDS. 

were almost abreast of it I informed Teresa that tliere vrere 
some of our fiieuds waiting for ns there, and invited her 

to alight. "Without suspicion she did so. Don't look 

at me that way, if you can help it. It was terribly mean 
of us fellows, as I see it now. It looked differently then; 
and we had none of us seen much of the Avorld and were 
rude in our notions of propriety. 

" When she came inside of the house and saw only three 
men in place of the girls of her acquaintance she expected 
to meet, she cast a rapid, surprised glance all round, 
blushed, asked, 'where are the girls?' — all in the most 
natural manner. There was positively nothing in her de- 
portment to betray a guilty conscience. I recognized that, 
and so, I could see, did Darling. He made haste to hand 
her a chair, which she declined, still looking about her with 
a puzzled, questioning air. I was getting nervous already 
over my share in the business, and so plunged at once into 
explanation. 

" ' Teresa,' I said, ' we four fellows have made a singular 
discovery, recently, to the effect that we each believed him- 
self to be your accepted lover. We have met together to 
hear j^our explanation. Is there a man in the house you 
are engaged to ? " 

" She gave one quick, scrutinizing glance at our faces, 
and read in them that we were in earnest. Indeed, the 
scene would have given scope to the genius of a Hogarth. 
Alternate red and white chased each other in quick succes- 
sion over her brow, cheeks, neck. Her eyes scintillated, 
and her chest heaved. 

" ' Please answer us, Teresa,' said Darling, after a most 
painful silence of a minute, which seemed an hour. 

"She raised her Hashing eyes to his, and her tones 
seemed to stab him as she uttered, ' You'/ you too? ' Then 
gathering up her riding-skirt, she made haste to leave us, 
but found the door guarded by Tom Allen. When she saw 
that she was really a i)risoner among us, alarm seized her, 



ON THE SANDS. 123 

and woman-like, she began to cry, but not passionately or 
liumbl}'. Her spirit was still equal to the occasion, and 
she faced us with the tears running over her cheeks. 

" 'If there is a man among you with a spark of honor, 
open this door! Mr. Kittredge, this is your house. Allow 
me to ask if I am to be retained a prisoner in it, or what 
you expect to gain by my forcible detention?" 

" Tom Allen whispered something unheard by any save 
her, and she struck at him with her riding-whip. This 
caused both Darling and myself to interpose, and I turned 
door-keeper Avhile Allen retreated to the other side of the 
room with rather a higher color than usual on his lumpish 
face. All this while — not a long while, at all — King had 
remained in sullen silence, scowling at the proceedings. 
At this juncture, however, he spoke: 

" ' Boys,' said he, ' this joke has gone far enough, and if 
you will permit us to take our leave, I will see Miss Bryant 
safe home.' 

"Involuntarily she turned toward the only one who 
proffered help; but Darling and I were too angry at the 
ruse to allow him to succeed, and stood our ground by the 
door. ' You see, Teresa, how it is,' continued King, glanc- 
ing at us defiantl}' : ' these fellows mean to keep you a pris- 
oner in this house until they make you do and say as they 
please.' 

" 'What is it you wish me to do and say?" asked Teresa, 
with forced composure. 

"'We wish you to state,' said I, hoarsely, ' whether or 
not you are or have been engaged to either of us. We want 
you to say it because we are all candidates for your favor, 
and because there is a dispute among us as to whose claim 
is the strongest. It will put an end to our quarrel, and se- 
cure to you the instant return of your liberty, if you will 
declare the truth.' 

" At that she sank down on a chair and covered her face 
with her hands. After a little time she gathered courage 



124 ox THE SANDS. 

and looked up at Darling' and me. I observed, even (hen, 
that she took no notice of the others. ' If I am promised 
to either of^'ou.j'ou know it. But this I say now: if I 
were a hundred times promised, I would break that prom- 
ise after sucli insult as you have all offered me this evening.' 
Let me go! ' 

" What Charlie Darling suffered all through tlie inter- 
view had been patent to each of us, AVheu she delivered 
his sentence in tones so determined, a cry that was a groan 
escaped his colorless lijss. To say that I did not writhe 
under her just scorn would be false. Tears, few, but hot 
and bitter, blinded my eyes. She took no further notice 
of any of us, but sat waiting for her release. 

" ' You knew by this time,' I said, ' that you had been 
deceived.' 

" I felt by this time that I had been a fool — a poor, coarse 
fool; there had been treachery somewhere, and that all to- 
gether we were a villainous lot. I was only hesitating 
about how to get out of the scrape decently, when Darling 
spoke in a voice that was hardl}' recognizable : 

" 'Teresa, we loere engaged; I told these others so be- 
fore; but they would not believe me. On the contrary, 
each one claims to have received such encouragement froin 
you as to entitle him to be considered your favored lover. 
Hard as it was for me to believe such falsehood possible to 
you, two of these claimants insisted upon their rights against 
mine, and they overruled my judgment and wishes to such 
a degree that I consented to this trial for you. It has re- 
sulted in nothing except shame to us and annoyance to 
you! I beg your pardon. More I will not say to-night.' 

"Then she rose up and faced us all again with burning 
cheeks and flashing eyes. ' If any other man sa^'S I have 
given him a promise, or anything amounting to a promise, 
he lies. To Tom Allen I have always been friendh', and 
have romped with him at our little parties; but to-night he 
grossly insulted me, and I will never speak to him again. 



ON THE SAxns. 125 

As to HaiTj King, I was frieiiilly with him, too, until aboi;t 
a fortnight ago he presumed to kiss me rudely, in spite of 
resistance, since which time I have barely recognized him. 
If Mr. Kittredge sa^'s I have made him any promises, he is 
unworthy of the great respect I have always had for him;' 
and with that last word she broke down, and sobbed as if 
her heart would break. But it was only for a few minutes 
that she cried — she was herself again before we had recov- 
ered our composure. 

" 'What was it Tom Allen said to jowV asked Charlie, 
Avhen her tears were dried. 

" ' He said he would have me, if the rest did cast me off. 
Thank you,' with a mocking courtesy to Allen. 'It is for- 
tunate for you — and for you all, that I have no "big 
brother.'' ' 

" ' I beg you will believe no " big brother " could add to 
my punishment,' Charlie answered; and I felt included in 
the confession. Then he offered to see her home without 
more delay, but she declined any escort whatever, only re- 
questing us to remain where we were until she had been 
gone half an hour; and rode off into the moonlight and 
solitude unattended, with what feelings in her heart God 
knows. We all watched her until she was hidden from 
sight by the shadows of a grove of pines, and I still remem- 
ber the shudder with Avhich I saw her plunge recklessly' into 
the gloom — manlike, careful about her beautiful body, and 
not regarding her tender girl heart. 

" That must have been a pleasant half hour for you," I 
could not help remarking. 

"Pleasant! yes; we were like a lot of devils chained. 
That night dissolved all friendships between any two of us, 
except between Darling and me; and tliat could never be 
quite the same again, for had I not shown him that I be- 
lieved myself a favored rival ? though I afterwards pre- 
tended to impute my belief to vanity." 

" How did you account to yourself iox the delusion ? Had 
she not flirted, as it is called, with you? ' 



126 ox THE SANDS'. 

" She had certainly caused me to 1)6 deluded, innocently 
or otherwise, into a belief that she regarded me with jyecul- 
iar favor; and I had been accustomed to take certain little 
liberties with her, which jDrobably seemed of far greater 
importance to me than they did to her; for her passional 
nature was hardly yet awakened, and among- our primitive 
society there was uo great restraint upon any innocent 
familiarities." 

" What became of her after that night? — did she marry 
Darling ?" 

The answer did not come at once. Thought and feeling 
were with the past; and I could not bring myself to intrude 
the present upon it, but busied myself with the leaves and 
vines and mosses that I had snatched from the banks in 
passing-, Avhile my friend was absorbed in his silent reminis- 
cences. 

" You have not heard the saddest jDart of the stor^' yet," 
he said at last, slowly and reluctantly. " She kept her 
■u'ord with each of us; ignoring Allen and King entirely; 
and only vouchsafing a passing word to Charlie and me. 
Poor Charlie was broken-hearted. He had never been 
strong, and now he was weak, ill; in short, fell into a 
decline, and died in the following year." 

" Did the story never get out?" 

" Not the true story. That scoundrel King sjiread a 
rumor abroad which caused much mischief, and was most 
cruel after what we had done to outrage her feelings in the 
first instance; but that was his revenge for her slight — I 
never knew whether she regretted Darling or not. She 
was so sensitive and willfully proud that she would have 
died herself sooner than betray a regret for any one who 
had offended her. Her mother died, and her father took 
her away with him to the Sandwich Islands. It was said 
he was not kind to her, especially after her ' disgrace,' as 
he called it." 

" She never forgave you? What do j'ou know al)out her 
subsequent history ?' 



ON THE SANDS. 127 

"Nothing of it. But she had her revenge for what 
went before. After she went to the Islands I wrote her a 
very full and perfect confession of ray fault, and the exten- 
uating circumstances, and ofl'ered her ray love, with the 
assurance that it had always been hers. What do you 
think she wrote rae in return? Only this: that once she 
had loved me; that she had but just made the discover}^ 
that she loved me, and not Charlie Darling, when we mu- 
tually insulted her as we did, and forced her to discard 
both of us; for which she was not now sorry." 

"After all, she was not an angel," I said, laughing lightly, 
to his embarrassment. 

" But to think of using a girl of sixteen like that! " 

" You are in a self-accusing mood to-day. Let us talk of 
our neighbors. Bad as that practice is, I believe it is better 
than talking about ourselves: — Mrs. Sanc}' thinks so, I 
know?" 

" "Who is Mrs. Sancy ?" 

" I will introduce you to-morrow." 

Next to being principal in a romantic affaire de cceiir is 
the excitement of being an interested thii'd party. In con- 
sonance with this belief I laid awake most of the night im- 
agining the possible and probable " conclusion of the whole 
matter." I never doubted that Mrs. Sancy was Teresa, nor 
that she was more fascinating at thirty-one than she had 
been at sixteen: but fifteen years work great changes in the 
intellectual and moral person, and much as I desired to 
l^lay the part of Fate in bringing these two people together, 
I was very doubtful about the result. But I need not have 
troubled myself to assume the prerogative of Fate, which 
by choosing its own instruments saved me all responsibility 
in the matter. 

As Mr. Kittredge messed with a i^arty of military officers, 
and was oS on an early excursion to unknown localities, I 
saw nothing of him the following morning. We were to 
ride on the beach after lunch, returning on the turn of the 



128 ON THE SAXBS. 

tide to see the bathers. Therefore no opportunity seemetl 
likely to present itself before evening for the promised in- 
troduction. 

The afternoon proved fine, and we Avere cantering- gaily 
along in the fresh breeze and sunshine, Avhen another party 
ajjpeared, advancing from the opposite direction, whom I 
knew to be Mrs. Sancy, her little daughter Isabelle, and the 
Kanaka servant. The child and servant were gallojjing 
hard, and passed us with a rush. But the lad}' seemed in 
a quieter mood, riding easily and carelessly, with an air of 
pre-occupation. Suddenly she too gave her horse whip and 
rein, and as she dashed past I heard her exclaim, "The 
quicksands! the quicksands!" 

Instinctively we drew rein, turned, and followed. We 
rode hard for a few minutes, without overtaking her; then 
slackened our speed on seeing her come up with the child, 
and arrest the race which had so alarmed her. 

"There are no quicksands in this direction;" was the 
first remark of Kittredge when we could speak. 

" "What should make her think so?" 

"There ^cere quicksands there a number of years ago, 
and by her manner she must have known it then." 

"And b}^ the same token," I replied, " she cannot have 
been here since the change." 

"Who is she?" 

" My friend, Mrs. Sancy." 

" Where is she from ? " 

" From the quicksands; " I replied evasivelv, as I saw the 
lady approaching us. 

" I fear you have shared my fright," she said, as soon as 
she came within speaking distance. " When I used to be 
familiar with these sands there was a dangerous spot out 
there; but I perceive time has effaced it, as he does so many 
things; " smiling, and bowing to my escort. 

" There are some things time never eftaces, even from the 
sands," returned Kittredge, growing visibly pale. 



ON THE SAXDS. 129 

" That is contrary to the poets," laughingly she rejoined; 
' ' but T believe the poets have been superseded by the 
scientists, who prove everything for you by a fossil." 

I could not help watching her to learn how much or how 
little recognition there was in her face. The color came 
and went, I could perceive; but whether with doubt or 
certainty I could not determine. I felt I ought to intro- 
duce them, but shrunk from helping on the denouement in 
that way. In my embarrassment 1 said nothing. We were 
now approaching the vicinity of the bathing-houses, and 
seeing the visitors collecting for the bath, an excuse was 
furnished for quickening our paces. Mrs. Sancy bowed 
and left us, Mr. Kittredge seemed to have lost the power 
of speech. 

Fifteen minutes after I was sitting on some drift-wood, 
watching the pranks of the gayest of the crowd as they 
"jumj^ed the rollers," when Mrs. Sancy came out of a 
dressing-room, followed by her Kanaka with a surf -board. 
Her bathing-dress was very jaunt}^ and becoming, and her 
skill as a swimmer drew to her a great deal of attention. 
To swim out and float in on the rollers seemed to be to her 
no more of a feat than it would be to a sea-gull, she did it 
so easily and gracef ull3\ But to-day something went wrong 
Avith her. Either she was too warm from riding, or her 
circulation was disturbed by the meeting with Kittredge, or 
both; at all events the second time she swam out she failed 
to return. The board slipped away from her, and she sank 
out of sight. 

While I gazed horror-stricken, scarce understanding 
what had taken place, a man rushed past me in his bathing 
clothes, running out to where the water was deep enough 
to float him, and striking out rajoidly from there. I could 
not recognize him in that dress, but I knew it was Kitt- 
redge. Fate had sent him. The incoming tide kept her 
where she sank, and he soon brought her to the surface 
and through the surf to the beach. I spread my cloak on 
9 



130 ox THE SAXDS. 

tlio sand, and, Avrapping- her in it, began rubbing and roll- 
ing her, with the assistance of other ladies, for resuscita- 
tion from drowning. 

In three minutes more Kittredge was kneeling by mv side 
with Q\ brandy-flask, administering its contents di'op by 
drop, and giving orders. "It is congestion," said he. 
"You must rub her chest, her back, her hands and feet; 
so, so. She will die in your hands if you are not (|uick. 
For God's sake, work fast!" 

B}^ his presence of mind she was saved as by a miracle. 
AVhen she was removed to her lodgings, and able to con- 
verse, she asked me who it was that had rescued her. 

"Mr. Kittredge," I said. 

"The same I met on the beach?" 

"The same." 

She smiled in a faint, half-dreaming way, and tnrned 
away her face. She thouglit I did not know her secret. 

I am not going to let my hero take advantage of the first 
emotion of gratitude after a service, to mention his wishes 
in, as many story-tellers do. I consider it a mean advant- 
age; besides Mr. Kittredge did not do it. In fact, he ab- 
sented himself for a week. "When he returned, I introduced 
him formally to Mrs. Sanc}', and we three walked together 
down to the beach, and seated ourselves on a white old Cot- 
tonwood that had floated out of the Columbia river, and 
been cast by the high tides of winter above the shelving 
sands. 

We were rather a silent party for a few minutes. In his 
abstraction, Mr. Kittredge reached dowai and traced a name 
in the sand with the point of my parasol stick — Teresa. 

Then, seeing the letters staring at him, he looked up at 
her, and said, "I could not brush them out if I Avould. 
Time has failed to do that." Her gaze wandered away, out 
to sea, up towards the Capes, down toward the Head; and a 
delicate color grew ujion her cheek. "It has scarcely 
changed in fifteen years," she said. "I did not count on 
finding all things the same." 



ON THE SANDS. 131 

With that I made a pretense of leaving- them, to seek 
shells along the beach; for I knew that fate could no longer 
be averted. When I returned she was aware that I pos- 
sessed the secret of both, and she smiled upon me a recog- 
nition of my right to be pleased with what I saw; what I 
beheld seeming the prelude to a happy marriage. That 
night I wrote in my diarj^, after some comments on my re- 
lations with Mr. Kittredge: 

" It is best to be off with the old love, 
Before you are on with the new." 



132 AN OLD FOOL. 



AN OLD FOOL. 
PART T. 

THE annual rain-fall on the lower Columbia Kiver is 
upward of eighty inches — often almost ninety; and 
the greater amount of this fall is during the winter months, 
from November to March, generally the least intermittent 
in December. I mention this climatic fact, the better to be 
understood in attempting to describe a certain December 
afternoon in the year 18G-. 

It lacked but tAvo days of Christmas, and the sun had 
not shone out brightly for a single hour in three weeks. On 
this afternoon the steady pour from the clouds was a strong 
reminder of the ancient deluge. Between the rain itself 
arid tlie mist which always accompanies the rain-fall in 
Oregon, the woi'ld seemed nearly blotted out. Standing on 
the wharf at Astoria, the noble river looked like a great 
gray caldron of steaming water, evaj^orating freely at 42^. 
The lofty highlands on the opposite shore had lost all 
shape, or certain altitude. The stately forest of firs along 
their summits Avere shrouded in ever-changing masses of 
whitish-gray fog. Nothing could be seen of the light-house 
on the headland at the mouth of the river; nothing of 
Tongue Point, two miles above Astoria; and only a dim 
presentment of the town itself, and tlie hills at the back of 
it. Even the old Astorians, used to this sort of weather 
and not disliking it, having little to do in the winter time, 
and being always braced up by sea-airs that even this fresli- 
w-ater flood could not divest of their tonic flavor — these old 
sea-dogs, pilots, fishermen, and other amphibia, were con- 
strained at last to give utterance to mild growls at the per- 
sistent character of the storm. 

A croAvd of these India-rubber clad, red-cheeked, and, 



^.V OLD FOOL. 133 

alas! too often red-uosed old men of the sea, liad taken 
shelter in the Railroad Saloon — called that, ajaparently, be- 
cause there was no railroud then within hundreds of miles 
— and were engaged in alternate wild railings at the 
weather, reminiscences of other storms, and whisky-drink- 
ing; there being an opinion current among these men that 
water-proof garments alone did not suffice to keep out the 
all-prevailing wet. 

" If 'twant that we're so near the sea, with a good wide 
sewage of river to carry off the water, we should all be 
drownded; thet's my view on't," said Rumway, a bar pilot, 
whose dripping hat-rim and general shiny ajjpearance gave 
point to his remark. 

" You can't count on the sea to befriend you this time. 
Captain. Better git yer ark alongside the wharf; fur we're 
goin' to hev the Columbia runnin' up stream to-night, sure 
as 3'ou're born." 

" Hullo ! Is that you, Joe Chillis ? "What brought 3'ou to 
town in this kind o' weather? And what do you know about 
the tides? — that's my business, I calculate." 

" Mebbe it is; and mebbe a bar pilot knows more about 
the tides nor a mountain man. But there'll be a rousiu' 
old tide to-night, and a sou'wester, to boot; you bet jev 
life on that !" 

" I'll grant you thet a mountain man knows a heaj) thet 
other men don't. But I'll never agree thet he can tell mc 
anything about my business. Take a drink, Joe, and then 
let's hear some o' your mountain yarns." 

"Thankee; don't keer ef I do. I can't stop to spin 
yarns, tho', this evenin'. I*ve got to git home. It won't 
be easy work pullin' agin the tide an hour or two from 
now." 

"What's your hurry?" "A story — a story!" "Let's 
make a night of it." " O, come, Joe, you are not wanted 
at home. Cabin won't run away; wife won't scold." 
"Stop along ov us till mornin';" were the various rather 



131 AN OLD FOOL. 

noisy aud ejaciilatory remarks iiiion Chillis's avowed inten- 
tion of abandoning good and aj^preciative company, with- 
out stopjnng to tell one of his ever-ready tales of Indian 
and Lear fighting in the Rocky Mountains thirty years 
before. 

" AVhy, yovT ain't goin' out again till 3'ou've sliaken off 
the water, Joe. You're dripping like a Newfoundland;" 
said Captain Rumwaj', as Chillis put down his empty glass, 
aud turned toward the door, which he had entered not five 
minutes before. This thoughtfulness for his comfort, how- 
ever, only meant, " Stay till you've taken another drink, 
and then maybe you will tell us a story;" and Chillis knew 
the bait w-ell enough to decline it. 

" Thankee, Captain. One bucketful more or less won't 
make no difference. I'm wet to the skin now. Thank ye 
all, gentlemen; I've got business to attend to this evenin'. 
Have an}' of you seen Eb Smile}- this arternoon ?" — looking 
back, with his hand on the door-knob. " I'd like to ppeak 
to him afore I leave, ef you can tell me whar to find him." 

"You'll find him in there," answered the bar-tender, 
crooking his thumb toward a room leading out of the 
saloon, containing a tumbled single-bed and a wooden 
settee, besides various masculine bijouterie in the shape of 
boots, old and new, clean and dirty; candle and cigar ends; 
dustj' bits of paper on a stand, the chief ornament of 
which was a black-looking derringer; coats, vests, fishing- 
tackle; and cheap prints, adorning the walls in the wildest 
disregard of effect — except, indeed, the efiect aimed at 
were chaos. 

Into this apartment Cbillis unceremoniously thrust him- 
self through the half-open door, frowning as darkly as his 
fine and pleasant features would admit of, and muttering to 
himself, " Damme, I thought as much." 

On the Avooden settee reclined a man thirty years his 
junior — Chillis was over sixty, though he did not look it — 
sleeping the heavy, stupid sleep of intoxication. Tlie old 



AN OLD FOOL. 135 

hunter did not stand upon ceremony, nor liesitate to invade 
the sleeper's privacy, but marched up to the settee, his rag- 
ged old blanket-coat dripping tiny streams from every sep- 
arate tatter, and proceeded at once roughly to arouse the 
drunken man b}' a j^rolonged and vigorous shaking. 

" "NVha'er want? Lemme 'lone,'' grumbled Smilej^ only 
dimly conscious of what Avas being said or done to him. 

"Get up, I say. Get up, you fool! and come along- 
home. Your wife is needin' ye. Go home and take care 
of her and the boy. Come along — d'ye hear ? " 

But the sleeper's brain Avas impervious to sound or sense. 
He only muttered, in a drowsy whisper, " Lemme 'lone," a 
few times, and went off into a deeper stupor than before. 

" You miserable cuss," snarled Chillis, in his wrath, "be 
d — d to you, then! Drink yerself to death, ef you Avant to 
— the sooner the better;" and, with this parting adjuration, 
and an extra shake, the old mountain man, who had drank 
barrels of alcohol himself with comparative immunit}^ from 
harm, tui'ued his back upon this younger degenerate victim 
of modern Avhisky, and strode out of the room and the 
house, without stopping to reply to the renewed entreaties 
of his friends to remain and " make a night of it." 

Making directly for the wharf, where his boat was moored, 
half tilled with water, he hastily bailed it out, pushed off, 
and, dropping the oars into the row-locks, bent to the work 
before him; for the tide was already beginning to run up, 
and the course he had to take brought him dead against it 
for the first tAvo or three miles, after which the tide would 
be Avith him, and, if there should not be too much sea, the 
labor of impelling the boat would be materially lessened. 

The lookout from a small boat was an ugly one at three 
o'clock of this rainy December afternoon. A dense, cold 
fog had been rolling in from the sea for the last half hour, 
and the wind was rising Avith the tide. Under the shelter 
of the hills at the foot of Avhich Astoria nestled, the wind did 
not make itself felt; but once past " The Point," and in the 



136 AN OLD FOOL. 

exposed waters of Young's Bay, the soutli-westers had a 
fair sweep of the great river, of which the bay is only an 
inlet. One of these dreaded storms was preparing to make 
itself felt, as Chillis liad predicted, and as he now saw by 
the wa}' in Avhich the mist was being- blown oft" the face of 
the river, and the " white-cajss'' came instead. Before he 
arrived oft' the Point he laid down his oars, and, taking; out 
of his coat-pocket a saturated yellow cotton handkerchief, 
proceeded to tie his old soft felt hat down over his ears, 
and otherwise make ready for a struggle with wind and 
water — neither of thein adversaries to be trifled with, as he 
knew. 

Not a minute too soon, either; for, just when he had re- 
sumed the oars, the boat, having drifted out of her cour.se, 
was caught by a wave and a blast on its broadside, and 
nearly upset. 

" Steady, little gal," said Chillis, bringing his boat round, 
head to the wind. " None o' your capers now. Thar is 
serious work on hand, an' I want you to behave better' n 
ever you did afore. It's you an' me, an' the White Rose, 
this time, sux*e," and he pressed his lips together grimly, 
and peered out from under his bent old hat at the storm 
which was driving furiously against his broad breast, and 
intohis white, anxious face, almost blinding and strangling 
him. His boat was a small one — too small for the seas of 
the lower Columbia — but it was trim and light, and steered 
easil}'. Besides, the old mountaineer was a skilled oars- 
man, albeit this accomplishment was not a i)art of the edu- 
cation of American hunters and trappers, as it was of the 
French voyageiirs. Keeping his little craft head to the 
wind, he took each wave squarely on the prow, and with a 
powerful stroke of the oars cut through it, or sprang over 
it, and then made ready for the next. Meanwhile, the 
storm increased, the rain driving at an angle of 45^, and in 
sheets that fla^^ped smotheringly about him like wet blan- 
kets, and threatened to swamp his boat without assistance 



AN OLD FOOL. 137 

from the waves. It was growing colder, too, and Lis sod- 
den garments were of little service to protect him from the 
chill that comes with a sonth-wester; uor was the grip of 
the naked hands upon the oars stimulating to the circula- 
tion of his old blood through the swollen fingers. 

But old Joe Chillis had a distinct comprehension of the 
situation, and felt himself to be master of it. He had gone 
over to Astoria that day, not to drink whiskj- and tell 
stories, but to do a good turn for the " White Kose." Fail- 
ing in his purjDose, he was going back again, at any cost, to 
make up for the miscarriage of that effort. Death itself 
could not frighten him; for what was the Columbia in a 
storm to the dangers he had passed through in years of 
hunting and trapping in the Kocky Mountains ? He had 
seemed to bear a charmed life then; he would believe that 
the charm had not deserted him. 

But, O, how his old arms ached! and the storm freshen- 
ing every minute, with two miles further to row, in the 
teeth of it. The tide was with him now; but the wind was 
against the tide, and made an ugly sea. If he only could 
reach the mouth of the creek before dark. If he could? 
Why, he must. The tide would be up so that he could not 
find the entrance in the dark. He worked resolutely — 
worked harder than ever — but he did not accomplish so 
much, because his strength was giving out. "When he first 
became aware of this, he heaved a great sigh, as if his heart 
were broken, then pressed his lips together as before, and 
peered through the thick, gray twilight, looking for the 
creek's mouth while yet there was a little light. 

He was now in the very worst part of the bay, where the 
current from Young's River was strongest, setting out to- 
Avard the Columbia, and where the wind had the fairest 
sweep, blowing from the coast across the low Clatsop 
plains. Only the tide and his failing strength were op- 
posed to these; would they enable him to hold his own? 
He set his teeth harder than ever, but it was all in vain. 



138 AN OLD FOOL. 

jind directly the catastrophe came. His strength wavered, 
the boat veered round, a sudden gust and roll of water 
took it broadside, and over she went, keel up, more than a 
mile from land. 

But this was not tlie last of Joe Chillis — not by any man- 
ner of means. He had trapped beaver too many years to 
mind a ducking more or less, if he only had his strength. 
So, when he came up, he clutched an oar that was floating 
past him, and looked about for the boat. She was not far 
ofif — the tide was holding her, bobbing up and down like a 
cork. In a few minutes she was righted, and Cliillis had 
scrambled in, losing his oar while doing it, and regaining 
it while being nearly upset again. 

It had become a matter of life and death now to keej) 
afloat, Avith only one oar to fight the sea with; and, though 
hoping little from the expedient, in such a gale — blowing 
the wrong way, besides — Chillis shouted for assistance in 
every lull of the tempest. To his own intense astonish- 
ment, as well as relief, his hail was answered. 

" "Where away?" came on the wind, the sound seeming 
to flap and flutter like a shred of torn sail. 

"Off the creek, about a mile?" shouted Chillis, with 
those powerful lungs of his, that had gotten much of their 
bellows-like proportions during a dozen j-ears of breathing 
the thin air of the mountains. 

"All right!" was returned on the snapjnng, fluttering 
gale. After this answer. Chillis contented himself with 
keeping his boat right side uj), and giving an occasional 
prolonged "Oh-whoo!"to guide his rescuers through the 
thickening gloom. How long it seemed, with the growing- 
darkness, and the eftbrt to avoid another upset! But the 
jn'omised help came at last, in the shape of the mail-car- 
rier's jilunger, her trim little mast catching his eyes, shin- 
ing white and bare out of the dusk. Directh' he heard the 
voices of the mail-carrier and another, 

' ' Where be ye ? Who be ye ? " 



AX OLD FOOL. 139 

" Ri^^lit here, under yer bow. Joe Chillis, you bet your 
life!" 

" Waal, come aboard here, mightj' quick. Make fast. 
Mind your boat; don't let her strike us. Pole off — pole off, 
with yer oar! " 

"Mind your oars," returned Chillis; " I'll mind mine " — 
every word spoken with a yell. 

"What was the row, out there?" asks the mail-carrier, 
making- a trumpet of his hand. 

" Boat flopped over; lost an oar," answered Chillis, keep- 
ing his little craft from flying on board by main force. 

" Guess I won't go over to-night," says the carrier. 
" 'Taint safe for the mail" — The wind snatching the word 
" mail " out of his mouth, and scattering it over the water 
as if it had been a broken bundle of letters. "I'll go back 
to Skippanon ' ' — the letters flying every way again. 

" Couldn't get over noways, now," shouts back Chillis, 
glad in his heart that he could not, and that the chance, or 
mischance, favored his previous designs. Then he said no 
more, but watched his boat, warding it off carefully until 
they reached the mouth of the creek and got inside, with 
nothing worse to contend against than the insolent wind 
and rain. 

" This is a purty stiff tide, for this time o' day. It won't 
take long to pull up to Skippanon, with all this water 
jiushin' us along. Goin' home to-night, Joe?" 

" Yes, I'm goin' home, ef I can borrer an oar," said 
Chillis. "My house ain't altogether safe without me, in 
sech weather as this." 

" Safer 'n most houses, ef she don't break away from her 
moorin's," returned the mail-carrier, laugbing. " Ef I can 
git somebody to take my place for a week, I'm comiu' up to 
spend it with you, an' do some shootin'. Nothin' like such 
an establishment as yours to go huntin' in— house an' boat 
all in one — go where you please, an' stay as long as you 
please." 



140 ^-^' <>i^T> FOOL. 

" Find me an oar to git home witli, an' 3"0u can come an' 
stay as long- as the grub liokls out." 

" Waal, I can do that, I guess, -when we git to the laudin'. 
I keep an extra pair or tAvo for emergencies. But it's gittin' 
awful black, Chillis, an' I don't envy you the trip up the 
creek. It's crooked as a string o' S's, an' full o' shoals, to 
boot." 

"It won't be shoal to-night," remarked Chillis, and re- 
lai^sed into silence. 

In a few minutes the boat's bow touched the bank. "Mind 
the tiller!" called out both oarsmen, savagely. But as no 
one minded it, and it was too dark to see what was the mat- 
ter, the )nail-earrier dropped his oar, and stepped back to 
the stern to feel what it was. 

"He's fast asleep, or drunk, or dead, I don't know 
which," he called to the other oarsman, as he got hold of 
the steering gear, and headed the boat up-stream again. 
His companion made no reply, and the party proceeded in 
silence to the landing. Here, by dint of much shouting 
and hallooing, the inmates of a house close by became in- 
formed of something unusual outside, and, after a suitable 
delay, a man appeared, carrying a lantern. 

"It's you, is it?" he said to the mail-carrier. "I reck- 
oned you wouldn't cross to-night. Who ye got in there?" 

"It's Joe Chillis. AYe picked him up outside, about a 
mile off the land. His boat had been upset, an' he'd lost 
an oar; an' ef we hadn't gone to his assistance it would 
have been the last of old Joe, I guess." 

"Hullo, Joe! Why don't you git up?" asked the man, 
seeing that Chillis did not rise, or change his position. 

"By George! I don't know what's the matter with him. 
Give me the lantern;" and the mail-carrier took the light 
and flashed it over Cbillis's face. 

"I don't know whether he's asleep, or has fainted, or what. 
He's awful white, an' there's an ugly cut in his shoulder, 
an' his coat all torn awav. Must have hurt himself tryin 



AN OLD FOOL. 141 

to right bis boat, I guess. George! the iron on the row- 
lock must have struck right into the flesh." 

"He didn't say he was hurt," rejoined the other oars- 
man. 

" It's like enough he didn't know it," said the man with 
the lantern. "When a man's in danger he doesn't feel a 
hurt. Poor old Joe! he wasn't drunk, or he couldn't have 
handled his boat at all in this weather. We must take 
him in, I s'pose." 

Then the three men lifted him upon his feet, and, by 
shaking and talking, aroused him sufficiently to walk with 
their supjDort to the house. There they laid him on a 
bench, and brought him a glass of hot whisky and water; 
and the women of the house gathered about shyly, gazing 
compassionately upon the ugly wound in the old man's de- 
licate white flesh, white and delicate as the fairest woman's. 

Presently, Chillis sat up and looked about him. "Have 
you got me the oars?" he said to the mail-carrier. 

"You won't row any more to-night, Joe, I guess," the 
carrier answered, smiling grimly. "Look at your shoul- 
der, man." 

"Shoulder be d — d!" retorted Chillis. "Beg pardon, 
ladies; I didn't see you. Been asleep, haven't I? Per- 
haps, sfence you seem to think I'm not fit for rowin', one of 
these ladies wall do me the favor to help me put myself in 
order. Have you a piece of court-plaster, or a healing 
salve, ma'am?" — to the elder woman. "Ladies mostly 
keep sech trifles about them, I believe." 

Then he straightened himself up to his magnificent height, 
and threw out his broad, round chest, as if the gash in his 
shoulder were an epaulet or a band of stars instead. 

" Of course, I can do something for you," said the woman 
he had addressed, very cheerfully and quickly. "I have 
the best healing salve in all the country;" and, running 
away, she quickly returned Avith a roll of linen, and the in- 
valuable salve. 



1^2 'J-V '>I^I> FOOL. 

"I must look at the Avoiind, and see if it wants Masliiug 
out. Ugh! O, dear! it is a dreadful cut, and ra<>'ged. You 
will have to go to the doctor with that, I'm afraid. But 
I'll just put this on to-night, to prevent your taking cold 
in it; though you will take cold, anyway, if you do not get 
a change of clothes;" and the good woman looked round 
at her husband, asking him with her eyes to ofler this very 
necessary kindness. 

" You'll stop with us to-night, Joe," said the man, in 
answer to this appeal, " an' the sooner you git oft" them wet 
clothes the better. I'll lend you some o' mine." 

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Chillis, you must get out of these wet 
things, and put on some of Ben's. Then you will let me 
get you a bit of hot su2:)per, and go right to bed. You 
don't look as if you could sit up. There !" she added, as 
the salve was jjressed gently down over the torn flesh, and 
heaving a deep sigh, "if you feel half as sick as I do, just 
looking at it, you will do well to get readj' to lie down." 

"Thankee, ma'am. It's w'orth a man's while to git hurt 
a leetle. ef he has a lady to take care o' him," answ'ered 
Chillis, gallantly. " But I can't accept your kindness any 
furder to-night. Ef I can git the loan of a lantern an' a 
pair o' oars, it is all I ask, for home I must go, as soon as 
possible." 

"Ben will lend you a lantern," said the mail-carrier, " an' 
I will lend you the oars, as I ^jromised; but what on earth 
you want to go any further in this storm for, beats me." 

"This storm has only jist begun, and its goin' to last 
three days," returned Chillis. "No use waitin' for it to 
quit; so, good-night to you all. I've made a pretty mess o' 
your floor," he added, turning to glance at the little black 
puddles that had drained out of his great si)ongy blanket 
coat, and run down through his leak}' boots on to the white- 
scoured boards of the kitchen; then, glancing from them 
to the mistress of the house — "I hope you'll excuse me." 
And with that he opened the door quickly, and shut him- 



AX OLD FOOL. 143 

self out into the tempest once more, making his Avay by the 
lantern's aid to the boat-house at the landing, Avhere he 
helped himself to what he needed, and was soon pulling up 
the creek. Luckily there was no current against him, for 
it was sickening work making the oar-stroke with that hurt 
in his shoulder. 

He could see by the light of the lantern, which he occa- 
sionally held aloft, that the long grass of the tide-marsh 
was already completely submerged, the immense fiats look- 
ing like a sea, with the wind driving the water before it in 
long rolls, or catching it up and flirting it through the air 
in .spray and foam. His only guide to his course was the 
scattering line of low willows whose tops still bent and 
shook above the flood, indicating the slightly raised banks 
of the creek, everything more distant being hidden in the 
jjrofound darkness which brooded over and seemed a part 
of the storm. But even with these landmarks he wandered 
a good deal in his reckoning, and an hour or more had 
elapsed before his watchful eyes caught the gleam of what 
might have been a star reflected in the ocean. 

"Thank Grod!"he whispered, and pulled a little faster 
tow'ard that spark of light. 

In ten minutes more, he moored his boat to the hitching- 
post in front of a tiny cottage, from whose uncurtained win- 
dow the light of a brisk wood-fire was shining. As the 
chain clanked in the ring, the door opened, and a woman 
and child looked out. 

"Is that 3'ou, Eben?" asked the woman, in an eager 
voice, made husky by previous weeping. "I certainly 
feared 30U were drowned." Then seeing, as her eyes be- 
came accustomed to the darkness, that the figure still lin- 
gering about the boat was not her husband's she shrank 
back, fearing the worst. 

"I'm sorry I'm not the one you looked for, Mrs. Smi- 
ley," ausAvered Chillis, standing on the bit of portico, Avith 
its dripping honeysuckle vines swinging in the wind; " but 



144 AN OLD FOOL. 

I'm better than nobody, I reckon, an' Smiley will hardly 
be home to-night. The bay's awful rough, an' ef I hadn't 
started over early, I shouldn't have ventured, neither. No, 
you needn't look for your husband to-night, nia'aiu." 

" AVill you not come in by the fire, Mr. Chillis?" asked 
the woman, hesitatingly, seeing that he seemed waiting to 
be invited. 

" Thankee. But I shall spile your floor, ef I do, I'm a 
perfect sponge, not fit to come near a lady, nohow. I 
thought," he added, as he closed the door and advanced to 
the hearth, " that I would jest stop an' see ef I could do 
anj'thing- t\)r you, seein' as I guessed you'd be alone, and 
mebbe afeard o' the storm an' the high tide. Ladies 
mostly is afeard to be alone at sech times " — untying the 
yellow cotton handkerchief and throwing his sodden hat 
upon the stone hearth. 

"Do you think there is any danger? " asked Mrs. Smi- 
ley, embarrassed, yet anxious. She stood in the middle of 
the room, behind liim, with that irresolute air an inexper- 
ienced person has in unexpected circumstances. 

He turned around with his back to the blaze, while a 
faint mist of evaporation began to creej^ out all over him, 
and occasionally to dart out in slender streams and float up 
the wide chimney. 

"There's no danger no^c, an' mebbe there wont be any. 
But the tide will not turn much afore midnight, an' it's 
higher now than it generally is when it is full." 

"What's that?" cried Willie, the boy, his senses sharp- 
ened by the mention of danger. 

" It's the wind rattlin' my boat-chains,'' returned Chillis, 
smiling at the little fellow's startled looks. 

" Your boat-chain ! "' echoed his mother, not less startled. 
" Was it your boat that you were fastening to the hitching- 
post? I thought it was your horse. Is the water up so high, 
then, already? " — her cheeks paling as she spoke. 

"I dragged it up a little way," returned Chillis, slowh". 



AN OLD FOOL. 145 

and tiiruiug liis face back to the five. He was listening at- 
tentively, and thought he caught the sound of lapping 
"water. 

" Have you just come from Astoria?" asked Mrs. Smiley, 
approaching, and standing at one corner of the heartli. 
The fire-light shone full upon her now, and revealed a clear 
Avhite face; large, dark-gray eyes, full of sadness and per- 
plexity; a beautifully shaped head, coiled round and round 
Avith heavy twists of golden hair, that glittered in its high 
lights like burnished metal; and a figure at once full and lithe 
in its proportions, clad in a neat-fitting dress of some soft, 
dark material, set off with a tiny white collar and bright 
ribbon. It was easy to see why she was the " White Rose" 
to the rough old mountain man. She was looking up at 
him with an eager, questioning gaze, that meant, O, ever 
so much more than her words. 

" Not quite direct. I stopped down at the landin', an' I 
lost a little time gittin' capsized in the bay. I left about 
three o'clock. " 

" Might not Eben have left a little later," the gray eyes 
added, " and have been capsized, too ? " 

" He wouldn't try to cross half an hour later — I'll wager 
my head on that. He can't get away from town to-night; 
an', what is worse, I don't think he can cross for two or 
three days. We've got our Christmas storm on hand, an' 
a worse one than we've had for twenty years, or I'm mis- 
taken." 

" If you thought the storm was going to be severe, why 
did you not warn Eben, Mr. Chillis?" The gray eyes 
watched him steadily. 

"I did say, there would be a sou'-wester uncommon 
severe; but Rumway laughed at me for prophesyin' in his 
company. Besides, I was in a hurry to get off, myself, 
and wouldn't argue with 'em. Smiley's a man to take his 
own way pretty much, too." 

" I wish you had warned him," sighed Mrs. Smiley, and 
10 



146 AN OLD FOOL. 

turned wearily awaj-. She left her guest gazing into the fire 
and still steaming in a very unsavor}' manner, lighted a 
candle, set it in the window, and opened the door to look 
out. What she saw made her start back with a cry of af- 
fright, and hurriedly close the door. 

"Your boat is this side of the hitching-post, and the 
water is all around us! " 

"An' it is not yet eight o'clock. I guessed it would be 
so." 

Just then, a fearful blast shook the house, and the l)oat's 
chain clanked nearer. Willie caught his mother's hand, 
and shivered all over with terror. " O, mamma!" he 
sobbed," will the water drown our house?" 

"I hope not, my bo3\ It inay come up and wet our 
warm, dry floor; but I trust it will not give us so much 
trouble. We do not like wet feet, do we, Willie? " 

Then the mother, intent on soothing the child, sat down 
ill the fire-light and held his curly head in her lap, whisper- 
ing little cooing sentences into his ear whenever he grew 
restless; while her strange, unbidden guest continued to 
evaporate in one corner of the hearth, sitting with his hands 
on his knees, staring at something in the coals. There was 
no attempt at conversation. There had never, until this even- 
ing, been a dozen words exchanged between these neigh- 
bors, who knew each other by sight and by reputation well 
enough. Joe Chillis was not a man whose personal ap- 
pearance — so far as clothes went — nor whose reputation, 
would commend him to women generally — the one being- 
shabby and careless, the other smacking of recklessness and 
whisky. Not that any great harm was knoAvn of the man; 
but that he was out of the pale of polite society even in this 
ne^v and isolated corner of the earth. He had had an In- 
dian wife in his youth; being more accustomed to the ways 
of her people than of his own. For nearly twenty years he 
had lived a thriftless, bachelor existence, knoAvn among men, 
and by hearsay among women, as a noted story-teller, and 



Ay OLD FOOL. 147 

genial, devil-may-care, old mountain man, "whose heart Avas 
in the right jDlace, but who never drew very heavily upon 
his brain resources, except to embellish a tale of his early 
exploits in Iiidian-fighting, bear-killiug and beaver-trapping. 
It was with a curious feeling of wonder that Mrs. Smiley 
found herself fcte-a-tele with him at her own fireside; and, 
in spite of her anxiety about other matters, she could not 
help studying him a good deal, as he sat there, silent and 
almost as motionless as a statue; nor keep from noticing 
his sj)lendid physique, and the aristocratic cut of his feat- 
ures; nor from imagining him as he must have been in his 
youth. She was absorbed for a little while, picturing this, 
gallant young White among his Indian associates — trying 
to fancy how he treated his squaw wife, and whether he 
really cared for her as he would for a White woman; then, 
she wondered Avhat kind of an experience his present life 
Avould be for any one else — herself, for instance — living 
most of the year on a flat-boat housed in, and hiding in 
sloughs, and all manner of watery, out-of-the-way places. 
She loved forest and stream, and sylvan shades, well 
enough; but not well enough for that. So a human creat- 
ure who could thus voluntarily exile himself must be pecul- 
iar. But Joe Chillis did not look peculiar; he looked as 
alive and human as anybody — in fact, particularly alive and 
human just now; and it was not any eccentricity which had 
brought him to her this night, but a real human reason. 
What was the reason? 

AVhat with his mother's cooing whispers, and the passing 
of her light hand over his hair, Willie had fallen asleep. 
Mrs. Smiley lifted him in her arms and laid him on the 
lounge, covei'ing him carefully, and touching him tenderly, 
kissing bis bright curls at the last. Chillis turned to Avatch 
her — he could not helj) it. Perhaps he speculated about 
Iter Avay of living and acting, as she had sj)eculated about 
his. Meantime, the tempest outside increased in fury, and 
the little cottage trembled with its fitful shocks. 



148 --l-V OLD FOOL. 

Now tliat Willie was asleep, Mrs. Chillis felt a growing 
nervousness and embarrassment. She could not l)ring 
herself to sit down again, alone with Joe Chillis. Not that 
she was afraid of him — there was nothing in his appear- 
ance to inspire a dread of the man; but she wanted to 
know what he was there for. The sensitive nerves of the 
man felt this mental inquiry of her, but he would not be 
the first to speak; so he let her flutter about — brightening 
the fire, putting to right things that were right enough as 
they were, and making a })retense of being busied Avith 
liousehold cares. At length, there was nothing more to do 
except to wind the clock, which stood on the niantel, over 
the hearth. Here was her opportunity. " The evening- 
has seemed very long," she said, " but it is nine o'clock, at 
last." 

Chillis got uj), went to the door, and opened it. Tlie 
boat was bumping against the floor of the tiny portico. 
She saw it, too, and her heart gave a great bound. Chillis 
came back, and sat down b}^ the fire, looking ver}^ grave 
and preoccupied. With a little shiver, she sat down opiDO- 
site. It was clear that he had no intention of going; and, 
strange as she felt the situation to be, she experienced a 
sort of relief that he was there. She was not a cowardly 
woman, nor was her guest one she Avould have been likely 
to appeal to in any peril; but, since a possible peril had 
come, and he was there of his own accord, she owned to 
herself she was not sorry. She was a woman, an}- way, 
and must needs require services of men, whoever they 
might be. Having disposed of this question, it occurred 
to her to be gracious to the man whose services she had 
made up her mind to accept. Glancing into his face, she 
noticed its pallor; and then remembered what he had said 
about being capsized in the bay, and that he was an old 
man; and then, that he might not have had any supj^er. 
All of Avhicli inspired her to say, "I beg pardon, Mr. 
Chillis. I presume you have eaten nothing this evening. 



^.V OLD FOOL. 149 

I sball get Toii something, right away — a cup of hot coffee, 
for instance." And, without waiting to hear his faint 
denial, Mrs. Smiley made all haste to put her hospitable 
intentions into practice, and soon had spread a little table 
with a very appetizing array of cold meats, fruit, bread, 
and coffee. 

"While her guest, with a few words of thanks, accepted 
and disposed of the refreshments, Mrs. Smiley sat and 
gazed at the fire in her turn. The little cottage trembled, 
the windows rattled, the storm roared without, and — yes, 
the water actually lapped against the house ! She started, 
turning to the door. The wind was driving the flood in 
under it. She felt a chill run through her flesh. 

" Mr. Chillis, the water is really coming into the house !"' 

" Yes, I reckoned that it would," returned the old man, 
calmly, rising from the table and returning to the hearth. 
" That is the nicest supper I've had for these dozen years; 
and it has done me good, too. I was a little wore out with 
pullin' over the bay, agin the wind." 

Mrs. Smiley looked at him curiously, and then at the 
water splashing in under the door. He understood her 
perfectly. 

" A wettin' wouldn't hurt you, though it would be disa- 
greeable, an' I should be sorry to have you put to that 
inconvenience. But the wind and the water ma}' unsettle 
the foundation o' your house, the chimney bein' on the 
outside, an' no support to it. Even that would not cer- 
tainly put you in danger, as the frame would likely float. 
But I knew, ef sech a thing should happen, an' you here 
alone, you would be very much frightened, an' perhaps 
lose your life a-tryin' to save it." 

" And you came up from the landing in all this storm to 
take care of me?'' Mrs. Smiley exclaimed, with flushing 
cheeks, 

" I came all the way from Astoria to do it," answered 
Chillis, looking at the new-blown roses of her face. 



Ii50 ^iy <>I^I> FOOL. 

" And Ebcn " She cliccked herself, and fixed her 

eyes upon the heartli. 

" Ho thoii<>ht there was no dan<>er, most likely." 

"Mr. Chillis, I can never thank you!" she cried, fer- 
vently, as she turned to <^iauce at the slecj)ing child. 

" White Rose," he answered, under his breath, " I don't 
want any thanks but those I've got." Then, aloud to her: 
"You might have some blankets ready, in case ^ve are 
turned out o' the house. The fire will be 'most sure to be 
jiut out, any way, an' you an' the boy will be cold." 

Mrs. Smiley was shivering with that tenseness of the 
nerves which the bravest w^omen suffer from, when obliged 
to wait the slow but certain approach of danger. Her 
teeth chattered together, as she went about her band-box 
of a house, collecting things that would be needed, should 
she be forced to abantlon the shelter of its lowly roof; and, 
as she was thus engaged, she thought the place had never 
seemed so cosy as it did this wild and terrible night. She 
put on her rubber overshoes, tied snugh' on a j^retty wool- 
len hood, got ready a pile of blankets and a warm shawl, 
lighted a large glass lantern (as she saw the water approach- 
ing the fireplace), and, last, proceeded to arouse "Willie, 
and wrap him up in overcoat, little fur cap, and warm mit- 
tens; when all was done, she turned and looked anxiously' 
at the face of her guest. It might have been a mask, for 
all she could learn from it. He was silently watching her, 
not looking either depressed or hoi^eful. She went up to 
him, and touched his sleeve. " How wet \o\x are, still," 
she said, compassionately. "I had forgotten that you must 
must have been uncomfortable after your capsize in the 
bay. Perhaps it is not too late to change your clothes, 
you will find some of Eben's in the next room. Shall I 
lay them out for you? " 

He smiled when she touched him, a bright, warm smile, 
that took away ten years of his age; but he did not move. 

"No," said he, "it's no use now, to jiut on dry clothes. 



AN OLD FOOL. 151 

It wou't hurt me to be wet; I'm used to it; but I shall be 
Sony wheu this clieerful fire is out." 

He Lad hardly spoken, when a blast struck the house, 
more terrific than any that had gone before it, and a nar- 
row crack became visible between the hearth-stone and the 
floor, through which the water oozed in quite rapidly. 
Mrs. Siuiley's face blanched. 

"That started the house a leetle," said Chillis, lighting 
his lantern by the fire. 

" Could we get to the landing, do you think?" asked Mrs. 
Smiley, springing instinctively^ to the lounge, where the 
child lay in a half-slumber. 

"Not afore the tide begins to run out. Ef it was day- 
light, we might, by keepin' out o' the channel; but the best 
Ave can do now is to stick to the j^lace we're in as long as it 
holds together, or keeps right side up. "When we can't 
sta}' no longer, we'll take to the boat." 

"I believe you know best, Mr. Chillis; but it's frightful 
waiting for one's house to float away from under one's feet, 
or fall about one's head. And the tide, too! I have always 
feared and hated the tides, they have been a horror to me 
ever since I came here. It seems so dreadful to have the 
earth slowly sinking into the sea; for that is the w^ay it ap- 
l^ears to do, you know." 

"Yes, I remember hearin' yoxx say you were nervous 
about the tides, once, when I called here to see your hus- 
band. Curious, that I often thought o' that chance sayin' 
o' yours, isn't it?" 

Mrs. Smiley's reply was a smothered cry of terror, as 
another blast — sudden, strong, jn-otracted — jiushed the 
house still further away from the fire-place, letting the 
storm in at the ojDening; for it was from that direction that 
the w'ind came. 

" Now she floats! " exclaimed Chillis. " We'll soon know 
whether she's seaworthy or not. I had better take a look at 
my boat, I reckon; for that's our last resort, in case your 



152 AX OLD FOOL. 

ark is worthless, Mrs. Smiley." He laughed softl.v, and 
stepped more vigorously than he had done, as the danger 
grew more certain. 

"All right yet — cable not i:)arted; ready to do us a good 
turn, if we need it." 

"We shall not be floated off to the bay, shall we?" 
asked Mrs. Smiley, trying to smile too. 

"Not afore the tide turns, certain." 

" It seems to me that I should feel safer anywhere than 
here. Unseen dangers always are harder to battle with, 
even in imagination. I do not wish to put you to any fur- 
ther trouble; but I should not mind the storm and the open 
boat so much as seeing my house going to pieces, with me 
in it — and AVillie." 

"I've been a-thinkin'," replied. Chillis, "that the house, 
arter all, ain't goiu' to be much i>rotection, with the water 
splashiu' under foot, an' the wind an' rain drivin' in on that 
side where the chimnej' is took away. It's an awful pity 
such a neat, nice little place should come to grief, like this 
— a real snug little home! " 

"And what else were a'ou thinking '? " — bringing him back 
to the subject of expedients. 

" You mentioned goin' to the landin'. Well, we can't go 
there; for I doubt ef I could find the way in the dark, with 
the water over the tops of the bushes on the creek bank. 
Besides, in broad daylight it would be tough work, pullin' 
agin' the flood; an' I had the misfortin to hurt my shoulder, 
tryin' to right my boat in the bay, which partly disables 
iiie, I am sorrj' to say; for I should like to put my Avhole 
strength to jonv service." 

" O, Mr. Chillis! — say no more, I beg. How selfish I 
am! when you have been so kind — with a bruise on your 
shoulder, and all! Cannot 1 do anything fur you? I have 
liquor in the closet, if you would like to bathe with it." 

" See — she moves again! " cried he, as the house swayed 
yet further away from the smouldering fire. " I've heard 



^.V OLD FOOL. 153 

of ' abaudoniu' one's liearth-stone; ' but I'd no idea that 
was the wa}' they done it." 

" I had best get the brandy, any way, I think. We may 
need it, if we are forced to go into the boat. But do let 
■me do something for you now, Mr. Chillis ? It seems 
cruel, that you have been in your wet clothes for hours, and 
tired and bruised besides." 

"Thankee — 'tain't no use!" — as she offered him the 
brandy-flask. " The lady down at the landin' put on a 
plaster, as you can see for yourself" — throwing back the 
corner of a cloth cape the woman had placed over his 
shoulders, to cover the rent in his coat. " The doctor will 
have to fix it up, I reckon; for it is cut up pretty bad with 
the iron." 

Mrs. Smiley turned suddenly sick. She was just at that 
stage of excitement w^hen "a rose-leaf on the beaker's 
brim " causes the overflow of the cup. The undulations of 
the water, under the floor and over it, contributed still fur- 
ther to the feeling; and she hurried to the lounge to save 
herself from falling. Here she threw herself beside Willie, 
and cried a little, quietl_y, under cover of her shawl. 

"There she goes! Well, this isn't pleasant, noways," 
said Chillis, as the house, freed with a final crash from im- 
pediments, swayed about unsteadily, impelled by wind and 
water. " I was sayin', a bit ago, that we could not git to 
the landin', at present. There are three ways o' choosin', 
though, which are these: to stay where w^e are; to git into 
the boat, an' let the house take its chances; or to try to git 
to my cabin, where we would be safe an' could keep warm." 

" How long would it take us to get to your house V" asked 
Mrs. Smiley, from under her shawl. 

"An hour, mebbe. We should have to feel our way," 

Mrs. Smiley reflected. Sitting out in an open boat, with- 
out trying to do anything-, would be horrible; staying where 
she was would be hardly less so. It would be six or seven 
hours still to dajdight. There was no chance of the storm 
abating, though the water must recede after midnight. 



154 AN OLD FOOL. 

"Let US go," she said, sitting up. " You Avill not desert 
me, I know; and why shouhl I keep you liere all night, in 
anxiety ami peril? Once at home, you can rest and nurse 
yourself." 

" So bo it; an' God help us!" 

"Amen!" 

Chillis opened the door and looked ovit, placing a light 
first in the window. Then coming back for a ba.sin, he 
waded out, bailed his boat, and, unfastening the chain, 
hauled it alongside the doorway. Mrs. Smiley had hastily 
put some provisions into a tin bucket, with a cover, and 
some things for Willie into another, and stood holding 
them, ready to be stowed away. 

"You will have to take the tiller," said Chillis, placing 
the buckets safely in the boat, 

"I meant to take an oar," said she. 

"If 3'ou know how to steer, it wull be better for me to 
pull alone. Now, let us have the boy, right in the bottom 
here, with plenty o' blankets under and over him; the same 
for yourself. The lanterns — so. Now, jump in!" 

"The fire is dead on the hearth," she said, looking back 
through the empty house, and across the gap of w^ater 
showing through the broken wall. " "What a horrible scene ! 
God sent you, Mr. Chillis, to help me live through it." 

"I believe he did. Are j'ou quite reatly?" 

"Quite; only tell me what I must do. I wish I could 
help you." 

"You do?" he answered; and then he bent himself to 
the work before him, with a sense of its responsibility Avhich 
exalted it into a deed of the purest chivalry. 



TART IT. 

The widow Smiley did not live on Clatsop Plains. Ever 
since the great storm at Christmas, when her house was 
carried off its foundations by the high tide, she had refused 
to go back to it. When the neighbors heard of her hus- 



^.V OLD FOOL. 155 

baud's death, tliey took her over to Astoria to see him 
buried, for there was no home to bring' him to, and she had 
never returned. Smiley, they say, was drowned where he 
fell, in the streets of Astoria, that night of the high tide, 
being too intoxicated to get up. But nobody told the 
widow' that. The}' said to her that he stumbled oft' the 
wharf, in the dark, and that the tide brought him ashore, 
and that was enough for her to know. 

She was staying with the family at the landing when the 
news came, two days after his death. Joe Chillis brought 
her things down to the landing, and had them sent over to 
Astoria, where she decided to stay; and afterward she sold 
the farm and bought a small house in town, where, after 
two or three mouths, she opened a school for young chil- 
dren. And the women of the place had all taken to making 
much of Joe Chillis, in consideration of his conduct during 
that memorable time, and of his sufferings in consequence; 
for he was laid up a long Avhile afterward with that hurt in 
his shoulder, and the consequences of his exposure. Mrs. 
Smiley always treated him with the highest respect, and did 
not conceal that she had a great regard for him, if he torts 
nothing but an old mountain man, who had had a squaw 
w'ife ; which regard, under the circumstances, was not to be 
wondered at. 

Widow Smiley was young, and pretty, and smart ; and 
Captain Rvimwa}', the pilot, was dreadfully taken up Avith 
her, and nobody would blame her for taking a second hus- 
band, who was able and willing to provide well for her. If 
it was to be a match, nobody would speak a word against it. 
It was said that he had left off drinking on her account, and 
Avas building a fine house uj) on the hill, on one of the pret- 
tiest lots in town. Such was the gossip about Mrs. Smiley, 
a year and a half after the night of the high tide. 

It was the afternoon of a July day, in Astoria; and, since 
we have given the readei* so dismal a picture of December, 
let us, in justice, say a word about this July day. All day 



15G ^'J-V OLD FOOL. 

long- the air ha<l been as hiiglit and clear as crystal, and tlio 
sun had sitavlcled on the blue waters of the noblest of rivers 
without blinding the eyes with glare, or sickening the senses 
with heat. Along either shore rose lofty highlands, crowned 
with cool-looking forests of dark-green firs. Far to the 
east, like a cloud on the horizon, the snow^y cone of St. 
Helen's mountain stood up above the wooded heights of the 
Cascade Range, with Mount Adams peeping- over its shoul- 
der. Quite near, and i^artly closing otT the view up the 
river, was picturesque Tongue Point — a lovely island of 
green — connected with the shore only by a low and narrow 
isthmus. From this promontory to the point below the 
town, the bank of the river Avas curtained and garlanded 
with blossoming shrubs — mock-orange, honej'suckle, spirea, 
aevifolla, crimson roses, and clusters of elder-berries, laven- 
der, scarlet, and orange — everywhere, except where men 
had torn them awaj^ to make room for their improvements. 

Looking seaward, there was the long line of wdiite surf 
which marks w'here sea and river meet, miles away; with 
the cape and light-house tower standing out in sharp relief 
against the expanse of ocean beyond, and sailing vessels 
Ij'ing oft' the bar waiting for Rumway and his associates to 
come oft' and show them the entrance between the sand- 
spits. And nearer, all about on the surface of the spark- 
ling river, snowy sails were glancing in the sun, like the 
Avings of birds that skim beside them. It is hard, in July, 
to believe it has ever been December. 

Perhaps Mrs. Smiley was thinking so, as from her rose- 
embowered cottage-2:)orch on the hill, not far from Captain 
Rumway's new house, she watched the sun sinking- in a 
golden glory behind the light-house and the cajie. Hor 
school dismissed for the week, and her household tasks 
completed, she was taking her repose in a great sleepy- 
hollow of a chair, 4iear enough to the roses to catch their 
delicate fragrance. Her white dress looked fresh and 
dainty, with a rose-colored ribbon at the throat, and a 



^.V OLD FOOL. 157 

bunch of spirea; sea-foam, Willie called it, in lier gleam- 
ing-, braided hair. Her great graj- eyes, neither sad nor 
bright, but SAveetly serious, harmonized the delicate -pwre 
tones that made up her person and her dress, leaving noth- 
ing to be desired, except, perhaps, a suggestion of color in 
the clear, white oval of her cheeks. And that an accident 
supplied. 

For, while the sun yei sent lances of gold up out of the 
sea, the garden gate clicked, and Captain Rumway came 
lip the walk. He was a handsome man, of fine figure, with 
a bronzed complexion, dark eyes, and hair alwa^'s becom- 
ingh- tossed up, owing to a slight wave in it, and a si^ringy' 
quality it had of its own. The sun and sea-air, Avhile they 
had bronzed his face, had imparted to his cheeks that rich 
glow which is often the only thing lacking to make a dark 
face beautiful. Looking at him, one could hardly help 
catching something of his glow, if onW through admiration 
of it. Mrs. Smiley's sudden color was possibly to be ac- 
counted for on this ground. 

"Good evening, Mrs. Smiley," he said, lifting his hat 
gracefully. "I have come to ask you to walk over and look 
at my house. No, thank you; I will not come in, if 3'ou are 
ready for the walk. I will stop here and smell these roses 
while you get your hat." 

" Is your house so nearly completed, then ? " she asked, 
as they went down the walk together. 

■' So nearl}', that I require a woman's opinion upon the 
inside arrangements; and there is no one whose judgment 
upon such matters I value more than yours." 

" I suppose you mean to imply that I am a good house- 
keeper? But there is great diversity of taste among good 
housekeepers, Mr. Kumway." 

" Your taste will suit me — that I am sure of. I did not 
see AVillie at home; is he gone away?" lie asked, to cover 
a sudden embarrassing consciousness. 

" I let him go home with Mr. Chillis, last evening, but I 
expect him home to-night." 



lo8 AN OLD FOOL. 

" Poor old Joe! He takes a great deal of comfort with 
the boy. And no wonder! — he is a charming child, worthy- 
such parentage," — glancing at his companion's face. 

" I am glad when anything of mine gives Mr. Chillis 
pleasure," returned Mrs. Smiley, looking straight ahead. 
" I teach "Willie to have a great respect and love for him. 
It is the least we can do." 

Rumway noticed the inclusive ivr, and winced. " He is 
a strange man," he said, by way of answer. 

"A hero!" cried Mrs. Smiley firmly. 

" And never more so then when in whisky," added Eum- 
way, ungenerously. 

'* Younger and more fortunate men have had that fault," 
she returned, thinking of Eben. 

"And conquered it," he added, thinking of himself, 

" Here we are. Just step in this door-way a bit and look 
at the view. Glorious, isn't it ? I have sent for a lot of 
very choice shrubs and trees for the grounds, and mean to 
make this the prettiest place in town." 

"It must be very prett}', with this view," replied Mrs. 
Smiley, drinking in the beauty of the scene with genuine 
delight. 

"Please to step inside. Now, it is about the arrange- 
ment of the doors, windows, closets, and all that, I wanted 
advice. I am told that ladies claim to understand these 
things better than men." 

" They ought, I am sure, since the house is alone their 
realm. "What a charming room! So light, so airy, with 
such a view! and the doors and w^indows in the right places, 
too. And this cunning little porch towards the west! I'm 
glad you have that porch, Mr. Rumway. I have always said 
every house should have a sunset porch. I enjoy mine so 
much these lovely summer evenings." 

And so they went through the house: she delighted with 
it, in the main, but making little suggestions, here and 
there; he palpitating with her praises, as if they had been 



AN OLD FOOL. 159 

bestowed on himself. And, indeed, was not this house a 
part of himself, having so many of his sweetest hopes built 
into it? For Avhat hig-her proof does a man give of a 
worthy love then in constructing a bright and cheerful shel- 
ter for the object of it — than in making sure of a fitting 
home ? 

"It will lack nothing," she said, as they stood together 
again on the " sunset porch," talking of so grouj^ing the 
shrubber}' as not to intercept the view. 

" Except a mistress," he added, turning his eyes upon 
her face, full of intense meaning. " AYitli the right woman 
in it, it will seem j)erfect to me, without her, it is nothing 
but a monument of my folly. There is but one woman I 
ever want to see in it. Can you guess who it is ? Will you 
come ■? " 

Mrs. Smiley looked up into the glowing face bent over 
her, searching the passionate dark eyes with her clear, cool 
gaze; while slowly the delicate color crept over face and 
neck, as her eyes fell before his ardent looks, and she drew 
in her breath quickly. 

"I, Ido not know; there are so many things to think of." 

'* What things? Let me help you consider them. If you 
mean — " 

"O, mamma, mamma!" shouted "Willie, fi-om the street. 
"Here we are, and I've had such a splendid time. We've 
got some fish for you, too. Are you coming right home?' 
And there, on the sidewalk, was Chillis, carrying a basket, 
with his hat stuck full of flowers, and as regardless as a 
child of the drollery of his appearance. 

Mrs. Smiley started a little as she caught the expression 
of his face, thinking it did not comport with the holiday 
appearance of his habiliments, and hastened at once to 
obey its silent aj^peal. Rum way walked beside her to the 
gate. 

"Have you no answer for me?" he asked, hurriedly. 

"Give me a week," she returned, and slipped away from 



IGO -4iV OLD FOOL. 

liim, tiildug the basket from Chillis, and ordering "Willie to 

carry it, while she walked by the old man's side. 

"You have been lookin' at your new house? he remarked. 

"You need not try to hide your secret from me. I see it 

in your face;" and he looked long and wistfully upon the 

rosy record, 

"If you see something in ??!/y face, I see something in 

yours. Y'^ou have a trouble, a new pain of some kind. 

Yesterday you looked forty, and radiant; this evening your 

face is white and drawn by suffering." 

"You do observe the old man's face sometimes, then? 

That other has not (j^uite blotted it out? O, my lovely lady! 

How sweet an' dainty 3'ou look, in that white dress. It does 

my old eyes good to look at you." 

"You are never too ill or sad to make me pretty comjDli- 

ments, Mr. Chillis. Do you know, I think I have grown 

quite vain since I have had you to flatter me. AVe consti- 
tute a mutual admiration society, I'm sure." 

Then she led him into the rose-covered porch, and seated 
him in the " sleepy-hollow;" brought him a dish of straw- 
berries, and told him to rest while she got ready his 
suj^per. 

"Rest!" he answered; "I'm not tired. "Willie an' I 
cooked our own supper, too. So you jest put "Willie to 
bed — he's tired enough, I guess — an' then come an' talk to 
me. That's all I want to-night — is jest to hear the "White 
Rose talk." 

"While Mrs. Smiley was occuj^ied with "Willie — his wants 
and his prattle — her guest sat motionless, his head on his 
Jrand, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. He had 
that rare repose of bearing which is understood to be a 
sign of high breeding, but in him was temperament, or a 
quietude caught from nature and solitude. It gave a jDosi- 
tive charm to his manner, whether animated or dej^ressed; 
a dignified, introspective, self-possessed carriage, that 
suited with his powerfully built, symmetrical frame, and 



AX OLD FOOL. 161 

regular cast of features. Yet, self-contained as his usual 
expression was, his face was capable of vivid illuminations, 
and striking- changes of aspect, under the influence of feel- 
ings either pleasant or painful. In the shadow of the rose- 
vines, and the gathering tAvilight, it would have been 
impossible to discern, by any change of feature, what his 
meditations might be now. 

" The moon is full to-night," said Mrs. Smiley, bringing 
out her low rocker and placing it near her friend. "It 
will be glorious on the river, and all the ' young folks ' will 
be out, I suppose." 

"Did not Rumway ask you to go? Don't let me keep 
you at home, ef he did." 

" No; I am not counted among young folks any longer," 
returned she, with a little sigh, that might mean something 
or nothing. Then a silence fell between them for several 
minutes. It was the fashion of these friends to wait for the 
sp»irit to move them to converse, and not unfrequently a 
silence longer than that which was in heaven came between 
their sentences; but to-night there was thunder in their 
spiritual atmosphere, and the stillness was oppressive. Mrs. 
Smiley beat a tattoo with her slipper. 

" Eumway asked you to marry him, did he?" began Chil- 
lis, at last, in a low and measured tone. 

" Yes." 

" An' you accepted him ? " 

" Not yet" — in a quavering adagio, 

" But you will ? " 

" Perhaps so. I do not know " — in a firmer voice. 

" Rumway is doin' well, an' he is a pretty good fellow, as 
men go. But he is not half the man that I was at his age 
— or, rather, that I might have been, ef I had had sech a 
motive for bein' a man as he has." 

" It is not difficult to believe that, Mr. Chillis. There is 
heroic material in you, and, I fear, none in Mr. Rumway." 
She spoke naturally and cheerfully now, as if she had no 
11 



1G2 ^^V OLD FOOL. 

sentiment too sacreil to be revealed about tlie i^erson in 
question. " But wby was there no motive ? " 

" Why? It was my fate; there was none — that's all. I 
had gone off to the mountains when a lad, an' couldn't git 
back — couldn't even git letters from home. The fur com- 
panies didn't allow o' correspondence — it made their men 
homesick. AVhen I came to be a man, I did as the other 
men did, took an Indian wife, an' became the father o' half- 
breed children. I never expected to live any other way 
than jest as we lived then — roamin' about the mountains, 
exposed to dangers continually, an' reckless because it was 
no use to think. But, after I had been a savag'e for a dozen 
years — long enough to ruin any man — the fur companies 
began to break up. The beaver were all hunted out o' the 
mountains. The men were ashamed to go home — Indians 
as we all were — an' so drifted off down here, where it was 
possible to git somethin' to eat, an' where there was quite a 
settlement o' retired trappers, missionaries, deserted sailors, 
and such-like Whites." 

" You brought your families with you ? " 

" Of course. We could not leave them in the mountains, 
with the children, to starve. Besides, we loved our chil- 
dren. They were not to blame for bein' half-Indian; an' we 
could not separate them from their mothers, ef we had a- 
wished. We did the only thing we could do, under the 
circumstances — married the mothers by White men's laws, 
to make the children legitimate. Even tlie heads of the 
Hudson's Bay Company were forced to comply with the 
sentiment of the White settlers; an' their descendants are 
among the first families of Oregon. But they had money 
an' position; the trappers had neither, though there were 
some splendid men among them — so our fan)ilies were 
looked down upon. O, AVhite Hose! didn't I use to have 
some bitter thoughts in those days? for my blood Avas high 
blood, in tlie State where I was raised." 

" I can imagine it, very easily," said Mrs. Smiley, softly. 



AX OLD FOOL. 163 

"But I never let on. I was wild and devil-ma^'-care. 
To hide my mortification, I faced it out, as well as I could; 
but I wasn't made, in the beginnin', for that kind o' life, 
an' it took away my manhood. After the country began to 
settle up, an' families — real White families — began to move 
in, I used to be nearly crazy, sometimes. Many's the day 
that I've rode through the woods, or over the prairies, tryin' 
to git away from myself; but I never said a cross w^ord to 
the squaw wife. Why should I?— it was not her fault. 
Sometimes she fretted at me (the Indian w6men are great 
scolds); but I did not answer her back. I displeased her 
with my vagabond ways, very likely — her White husband, 
to whom she looked for better things. I couldn't work; I 
didn't take no interest in work, like other men." 

"O, Mr. Chillis! was not that a great mistake? Would 
not some kind of ambition have helped to fill uj) the blank 
in 3'our life ?" 

" I didn't have any — I couldn't have any, with that old 
Indian woman sittin' there, in the corner o' m}' hearth. 
When the crazy fit came on, I jest turned my back on 
home, an' mounted my horse for a long, lonely ride, or 
W' ent to town and drank whisky till I was past rememberin' 
my trouble. But I never complained. The men I asso- 
ciated with expected me to amuse them, an' I generally 
did, with all manner o' wuld freaks an' incredible stories — 
some o' which were truer than they believed, for I had had 
plenty of adventures in the mountains. White Eose, do 
you imagine I ever loved that squaw wife o' mine?" 

" I remember asking myself such a question, that night 
of the storm, as you stood by the fire, so still and strange. 
I was speculating about your history, and starting these 
very queries you have answered to-night." 

" But you have never asked me." 

"No; how could I? But I am glad to know. Now I 
understand the great patience — the tender, pathetic pa- 
tience — which I have often remarked in you. Only those 
who have suffered long and silently can ever attain to it." 



164 ^li^' OT.D FOOL. 

"An' so people say, ' Poor old Joe !' an' they don't know 
wbat the}' mean, Avlieu they say it. They think I am a 
man -without the ambitions an' passions of other men; a 
simjjle, good fellow, without too much brain, an' only the 
heart of a fool. But they don't know me — they don't know 
me !" ' 

" How could they, without hearing what yovi have just 
told me, or without knoAving you as I know you?" 

" They ne^er will know. I don't want to be pitied for 
my mistakes. 'Poor old Joe' is proud, as well as poor.'' 

Mrs. Smiley sat silent, gazing at the river's silver ripples. 
Her shapely hands were folded in her laj); her whole atti- 
tude quiet, absorbed. Whether she was thinking of what 
she had heard, or whether she had forgotten it, no one 
could have guessed from her manner; and Chillis could 
not wait to know. The fountains of the deep had beeii 
stii'red until they would not rest. 

" Was there no other question you asked V'ourself about 
the old mountain man which he can answer? Did you 
never wonder whether he ever had loved at all ? " 

" You have made me wonder, to-night, whether, at some 
period of your life, you have not loved some woman of j'our 
own race and color. You must have had some opiDortu- 
nities of knowing Avhite women." 

" Very few. An' my pride was agin seekin' what I knew 
was not for me; for the woman I fancied to myself was no 
common white woman. White Rose, I carried a young 
man's heart in my bosom until I was near sixty, an' then I 
lost it." He put out a hand and touched one of hers, ever 
so lightl}'. " I need not tell j'ou any more." 

A silence that made their pulses seem audible followed 
this confession. A heavy shadow descended uj^on both 
hearts, and a sudden dreary sense of an unutterable and 
unalterable sorrow burdened their spirits. 

After a little, "Mr. Chillis! Mr. Chillis!" wailed the 
woman's pathetic voice; and " O, my lovely lady!" sighed 
the man's. 



AN OLD FOOL. 165 

' ' What shall I do ? what shall I do ? I am so sorry. 
What shall I do?" 

"Tell me to go. I knew it would have to end so. I 
knew that Kumway would drive me to say what I ought not 
to say; for he is not worthy o' you — no man that I know of 
is. Ef I was as j'oung; as he, an' had his chance, I would 
make mj'self worthy o' you, or die. But it is too late. 
Old Joe Chillis may starve his heart, as he has many a time 
starved his body iu the desert. But I did love you so! O, 
my sweet White Rose, I did love you so! always, from the 
first time I saw you." 

" What is that you say? " said Mrs. Smiley, in a shocked 
voice. 

"Always, I said, from the first time I saw you. My love 
Avas true; it did not harm you. I said, ' There is such a 
woman as God designed for me. But it is too late to have 
her now. I will jest worship her humbly, a great ways off, 
an' say " God bless her!" when she passes; an' think o' 
her sweet ways when I am ridin' through the woods, or 
polin' my huntin'-boat up the sloughs, among the willows 
an' pond-lilies. She Avould hardl}' blame me, ef she knew 
I loved her that way.' 

"But it grew harder afterwards. White Eose, when you 
were grateful to me, in your pretty, womanly way, an' 
treated me so kindly before all the world, an' let your little 
boy love me, an' loved me yourself — I knew it — in a gentle, 
friendly fashion. O, but it was sweet! — but not sweet 
enough, sometimes. Ef I have been crazed for the lack o' 
love iu my younger days, I have been crazed with love since 
then. There have been days when I could neither work nor 
eat, nights w^hen I could not sleep, for thinkin' o' what 
might have been, but never could be; times when I have 
been tempted to upset my boat iu the bay, an' never try to 
right it. But when I had almost conquered my madness, 
that you might never know, then comes this Rumway, with 
his fine looks, an' his fine house, an' his fine professions, an' 



166 AX OLD FOOL. 

blots me out entirely; for what Avill old Joe be worth to 
Madame Rumwaj', or to Madame Rumway's fine husband? ' 

Mrs. Smile}' sat thoughtful and silent a long time after 
this declaration of love, that gave all and required so little. 
She was sorry for it; but since it was so, and she must know 
it, she was glad that slje had heard it that night. She could 
place it in the balance with that other declaration, and de- 
cide upon their relative value to her; for she saw, as he did, 
that the two were incompatible — one must be given uj). 

" It is late," she said, rising. "You will come up and 
take breakfast with "Willie and me, before you go home ? 
My strawberries are in their prime." 

"I thought you would a-told me to go, an' never come 
back," he said, stepping out into the moonlight with the 
elastic tread of twenty-five. He stopped and looked back 
at her, with a beaming- countenance, like a boy's. 

She was standing on the step above him, looking- down 
at him with a pleasant but serious expression, " I am go- 
ing to trust you never to repeat to me what you have said 
to-night. I know I can trust you." 

" So be it, AVhite Rose," he returned, with so rapid and 
involuntary a change of attitude, voice, and expression, 
that the pang of his hurt pierced her heart also. But " I 
know I can trust you," she repeated, as if she had not seen 
that shrinking from the blow. "And I am going to tr^^ to 
make your life a little pleasanter, and more like other peo- 
ple's. When you are dressed uj), and ordered to behave 
jDroperly, and made to look as handsome as 30U can, so that 
ladies shall take notice of you and flatter you with their 
eyes and tongues, and you come to have the same interest 
in the world that other men have — and why shouldn't you? 
— then your imagination will not be running away with 
you, or making angels out of common little persons like 
myself — how dreadfully prosy and commonplace you have 
no idea! And I forbid 3'ou to allow Willie to stick 3'our 
hat full of flowers, when you go fishing together; and order 



AX OLD FOOL. 167 

you to make that youug impudence respectful to you on all 
occasions — asserting your authority, if necessary. And, 
lastly, I prefer you should not call me Madame Eumway 
until I have a certified and legal claim to the title. Good- 
night." 

He stood bareheaded, his face drooping and half-con- 
cealed, pulling the withered flowers out of his hat. Slowly 
he raised it, made a militar}' salute, and placed it on his 
head. "It is for you to command and me to obey," he 
said. 

"Breakfast as seven o'clock precisely," called out the 
tuneful voice of Mrs. Smiley after him, as he went down 
the garden-path with bent head, walking more like an old 
man than she had ever seen him. Then she went into the 
house, closed it carefully, after the manner of lone women, 
and went up to her room. But deliciously cool and fra- 
grant as was the tiny chamber, Mrs. Smiley could not sleep 
that night. Nor did Chillis come to breakfast next morn- 
ing. 

A month passed away. Work was suspended on Mr. 
Rumway's house, the doors and windows boarded up, and 
the gate locked. Everybody knew it could mean but one 
thing — that Mrs. Smiley liad refused the owner. But the 
handsome captain put a serene face upon it, and kept about 
his business industriously and like a gentleman. The fact 
that he did not return to his wild courses was remarked 
ujion as something hardlj^ to be credited, but greatly to his 
honor; for it was universally conceded, that such a disap- 
pointment as his was enough to drive almost smj man to 
drink who had indulged in it previously; such is the gen- 
erall}^ admitted frailty of man's moral constitution. 

Toward the last of August, Mrs. Smile}' received a visit 
from Chillis. He was dressed with more than his custom- 
ary regard to appearances, and looked a little paler and 
thinner than usual. Otherwise, he was just the same as 
ever; and, with no questions asked or answered on either 



1G8 AX OLD FOOL. 

side, their old relations were re-established, aud AVillie 
was rapturously excited with the prospect of more Satur- 
day excursions. Yet there was this difference in their 
manner toward each other — that he now' seldom addressed 
her as "White Rose," and never as "my lovely lady;" 
while it was she who made graceful little compliments to 
him, and was ahvays gay and bright in his company, and 
constantly watchful of his comfort or pleasure. She pre- 
vailed upon him, too, to make calls Avith her upon other 
ladies; and gave him frequent commissions that would 
bring him in contact with a variety of persons. But she 
could not help seeing, that it was only in obedience to her 
wishes that he made calls, or mingled with the town-people; 
and when, one evening, returning together from a visit 
w^here he had been very much jjatronized, he had remarked, 
with a shrug and smile of self-contempt, "It is no use, 
Mrs. Smiley — oil an' water won't mix," she had given it up, 
and never more interfered with his old habits. 

So the summer passed, and winter came again, with its 
long rains, dark days, and sad associations. Although 
Mrs. Smiley w^as not at all a " weakly woman," constant 
effort and care, and the absence of anything very flattering 
in her future, or inspiring in her jjresent, wore uj)on her, 
exhausting her vitality too rapidly for jDcrfect health, as 
the constantly increasing delicacy of her appearance testi- 
fied. In truth, when the spring opened, she found herself 
so languid and depressed as to be hardly able to teach, in 
addition to her house-work. Then it was that the gossips 
took \ip her case once more, and declared, with consider- 
able unanimit}', that Mrs. Smiley was pining for the hand- 
some Captain, after all, and, if ever she had refused him, 
Avas sorry for it — thus revenging themselves upon a Avoman 
audacious enough to refuse a man many others Avould have 
thought " good enough for them," and " too good for " so 
unappreciative a person. 

With the first bright aud Avarm Aveather, Willie Avent to 



AN OLD FOOL. 169 

spend a week with his friend, and Mrs. Smiley felt forced 
to take a vacation. A j'acbting-i^arty were going over to 
the cape, and Captain Rumway was to take them out over 
the bar. Rumway himself sent an invitation to Mrs. Smi- 
\ej — this being' the first offer of amity he had felt able to 
make since the jDrevious July. She laughed a little, to her- 
self, when the note came (for she was not ignorant of the 
town-tattle — what school-teacher ever is?) and sent an ac- 
ceptance. If Captain Rumway were half as courageous as 
she, the chatterers would be confounded, she promised her- 
self, as she made her toilet for the occasion — not too nice 
for sea-water, but bright and pretty, and becoming, as her 
toilets always were. 

So she sailed over to the cajDe with the "young folks," 
and, as widows can — particularly widows who have gossip 
to avenge — was more charming than any girl of them all, to 
others beside Captain Rumway. The officers of the garri- 
son vied with each other in showing her attentions; and 
the light-house keeper, in exhibiting* the wonders and beau- 
ties of the place, always, if unconsciously, appealed to Mrs. 
Smiley for admiration and appreciation. Yet she wore her 
honors modestly, contriving to share this homage with some 
other, and never accepting it as all meant for herself. And 
toward Captain Rumway her manner was as absolutely free 
from either coquetry or awkwardness as that of the most in- 
different acquaintance. Nobody, seeing her perfectly frank 
yet quiet and cool deportment with her former suitor, could 
say, without falsehood, that she in any way concerned her- 
self about him; and if he had heard that she was pining for 
him, he was probably undeceived during that excursion. 
Thus she came home feeling that she had vindicated her- 
self, and W'ith a pretty color in her face that made her look 
as girlish as any 3''0ung lady of them all. 

But, if Captain Rumway had reopened an acquaintance 
wdth Mrs. Smiley out of compassion for any woes she might 
be suffering on his account, or out of a design to show how 



170 ^^ OLD FOOL. 

completely be was master of himself, or, in short, for any 
motive whatever, he was taken in his own devices, and 
comi^elled to surrender unconditiouall}'. Like the man in 
Scripture, out of whom the devils were cast only to return, 
his last estate was worse than the first, as he was soon com- 
pelled to acknowledge; and one of the first signs of this 
relapse into fatuity Avas the resumjition of work on the un- 
finished house, and the ornamentation of the neglected 
grounds. 

"I will make it such a place as she cannot refuse," he 
said to himself, more or less hopefull3\ " She will have to 
accept the house and grounds, with me thrown in. And 
whatever she is pining for, she is pining, tJiai I can see. It 
may he for outdoor air and recreation, and the care which 
a husband only can give her. If it be that she can take 
them along with me." 

Thus it was, that when Chillis brought Willie home from 
his long visit to the woods and streams, he saw the work- 
men busy on the Captain's house. He heard, too, about 
the excursion to the cape, and the inevitable comments up- 
on Runiway's proceedings. But he said nothing about it to 
Mrs. Smiley, though he spent the evening in the snug little 
parlor, and they talked together of man}' things personally 
interesting to both; especially about Willie's education and 
profession in life. 

" He ought to go to college," said his mother. " I wish 
him to be a scholarly man, whatever profession he decides 
upon afterward. I could not bear that he should not have 
a liberal education." 

" Yes, Willie must be a gentleman," said Chillis; " for 
his mother's sake he must be that." 

"But how to provide the means to fiu-nish such an edu- 
cation as he ought to have, is what puzzles me," continued 
Mrs. Smiley, pausing in her needle-work to stud}' that 
problem more closely, and gazing absently at the face of 
her guest. " Will ten years more of school-teaching do it, 
I wonder?" 



AN OLD FOOL. 171 

"Ten years o" school-teachin', an' house-work, an' sew- 
in' !" cried he. " Yes, long- before that 3-011 will be under 
the sod o' the graAe-yard ! You cannot send the boy to 
college." 

" Who, then?" — smiling- at his vehemence. 

"7 will." 

"You, Mr. Chillis? I thought. . . ." She checked her- 
self, fearing to hurt his pride. 

" You thought I was poor, an' so I am, for I never tried 
to make money. / don't want money. But there is land 
belongin' to me out in the valley — five or six hundred acres 
— an' land is growin' more valuable every year. Ten years 
from now I reckon mine would pay a boy's schoolin'. So 
you needn't work yourself to death for that, Mrs. Smiley." 

The tears sprang to the gray eyes which were turned 
upon him with such eloquent looks. " It is like you," she 
said, in a broken voice, " and I have nothing to say." 

" You are welcome to my land, "White Eose, an' there is 
nothin' to be said." 

Then she bent her head over her sewing, feeling, indeed, 
that there Avas little use for words. 

" Do you knoAV," he asked, breaking a protracted silence, 
"that you have got to give \\]i teachin'?" 

"And do what ? I might take to gardening. That would 
be better, perhaps; I have thought about it." 

" Let me see your hands. Thej^ look like gardenin': two 
rose-leaves! Don't it make me wish to be back in m}' prime ? 
Work for you! "Wouldn't I love to Avork for you ?" 

"And do you not, in every Avay you can? Am I to have 
no pride about accepting so much service? "What a poor 
creature you must take me for, Mr. Chillis." 

" There is nothin' else in the Avorld that I think of; nothin' 
else that I live for; an' after all it is so little, that I cannot 
save you from spoilin' your pretty looks AA^ith care. An' you 
have troubled yourself about me, too; don't think I haA'en't 
seen it. You fret your lovely soul about the old man's 



172 AN OLD FOOL. 

trouble, Avlieu you can't help it— you, nor nobody. An', 
after all, what does it matter about me? /am notbin', and 
you are everytbing. I want you to remember tbat, and do 
everj'thiug for your own bappiness witbout wastin" a tbougbt 
on me. I am content to keep my distance, ef I onlj- see 
you bai:)py and well off. Do you understand me ? " 

Mrs. Smiley looked up witb a suffused face. " Mr. Cbil- 
lis," sbe answered, "3^ou make me asbamed of myself and 
my selfisbness. Let us never refer to tbis subject again. 
Work don't burt me; and since you bave offered to provide 
for Willie's education, you bave lifted balf my burden. 
AVby sbould you stand at a distance to see me bappier tban 
I am, wben I am so bappy as to bave sucb a friend as you? 
How am I to be bajopier by your being at a distance, who 
bave been tbe kindest of friends? You are out of spirits 
tbis evening, and you talk just a little — nonsense." And 
sbe smiled at liim in a sweetly apologetic fasbiou for tbe 
word. 

"Tbat is like enougb," be returned gravely; "but I 
want you to remember my words, foolisb or not. Don't 
let me stand in your ligbt — not for one minute; and don't 
forgit tbis: tbat Joe Cbillis is bappy wben be sees tbe 
Wbite Rose bloomin' and brigbt." 

Contrary to bis command, Mrs. Smiley did endeavor to 
forget tbese words in tbe weeks following, wben tbe old 
mountain-man came no more to ber rose-embowered cot- 
tage, and wben Captain Rumway invented man}' ingenious 
scbemes for getting tbe pale scbool-teacber to take more 
recreation and fresb air. Sbe endeavored to forget tbem, 
but sbe could not, tbougb ber resolve to ignore tbem was 
as strong as it ever bad been Avben ber burdens bad seemed 
ligbter! But in spite of ber resolve, and in spite of tbe fact 
tbat it could not be said tbat any encouragement bad been 
given to rej^eat bis addresses, Rumwa}' continued to work 
at bis bouse and grounds steadily, and, to all appearance, 
bopefully. And altbougb be never consulted Mrs. Smiley 



^.Y OLD FOOL. 173 

now concerning the arrangement of either, he showed that 
lie remembered her suggestions of the year before, by fol- 
lowing them out without deviation. 

Thus quietl}', without incident, the June days slipped 
away, and the perfect July weather returned once more, 
when there was always a chair or two out on the sunset 
porch at evening. At last Chillis re-appeared, and took a 
seat in one of them, quite iu the usual way. He had been 
away, he said, attending to some business. 

" An' I have fixed that matter all right about the boy's 
schoolin', he added. "The papers are made out in the 
clerk's office, an' will be sent to you as soon as they are 
recorded. There are five hundred and forty acres, which you 
Avill know how to manage better than I can tell you. You 
can sell by and by, ef you can't yet the money out of it any 
other wa}'. The taxes won't be much, the land being un- 
improved." 

"You do not mean that you have deeded all your land to 
Willie?" asked Mrs. Smiley. "I protest against it: he 
must not have it! Would you let us rob you," she asked 
Avonderingly. "What are you to do, by and by, as you 
say?" 

"Me? I shall do well enough. Money is o' no use to 
me. But ef I should want a meal or a blanket that 1 
couldn't get, the boy Avouldn't see me want them long. 
Ef he forgot old Joe Chillis, his mother wouldn't, I 
reckon." 

"You pay too high a price for our remembrance, Mr, 
Chillis; we are not worth it. But why do you talk of for- 
getting? You are not going away from us?" 

"Yes; I am goin' to start to-morrow for my old stamjoin' 
ground, east o' the mountains. My only livin' sou is over 
there, somewhar. He don't amount to much — the Indian 
in him is too strong; but, like enough, he will be glad to 
see his father afore I die. An' I want to git away from 
here." 



174 AN OLD FOOL. 

" You will comeback? Promise .me you will come back?" 
For something in his voice, and his settled expression of 
melancholy and renunciation, made her fear he was taking 
this step for a reason that could not be named between 
them. 

" It is likely," he said; " but ef I come or no, don't fret 
about me. Just remember this that I am tellin' you now. 
The day I first saw you was the most fortunate day of ni}' life. 
Ef I hadn't a-met you, I should have died as I had lived — 
like a creature without a soul. An' now I have a soiil, in 
you. An' when I come to die, as I shall before many 
years, I shall die happy, thinkiu' how my old hands had 
served the sweetest woman under heaven, and how they 
liad been touched by hers so kindly, many a time, when 
she ^condescended to serve me." 

What could she say to a charge like this? Yet saj' some- 
thing she must, and so she answered, that he thought too 
highly- of her, who was no better than other women; but, 
that, since in his great singleness of heart, he did her this 
honor, to set her above all the world, she could only be 
humbly' grateful, and wish really to be what in his vivid im- 
agination she seemed to him. Then she turned the talk 
upon less personal topics, and "Willie was called and in- 
formed of the loss he Avas about to sustain; upon which 
there was a great deal of childish questioning, and boyish 
regret for the good times no more to be that summer. 

"I should like to take care of your boat," said he — "your 
hunting-boat, I mean. If I had it over here, I would take 
mamma down to it every Saturday, and she could sew and 
do everything there, just as she does at home; and it would 
be gay, now, wouldn't it?" 

" The old boat is sold, my boy; that an' the row-boat, and 
the pony, too. You'll have to wait till I come back for 
huutin', and fishin', and ridin'." 

Then Mrs. Smilej' knew almost certainly that this visit was 
the last she would ever receive from Joe Chillis, and, 



AN OLD FOOL. 175 

tliougli slie tried hard to seem unaffected by tbe parting, 
and to talk of his return hopefully, the effort proved abor- 
tive, and conversation flagged. Still he sat there silent and 
nearly motionless through the whole evening, thinking 
what thoughts she guessed only too well. "With a great 
sigh, at last he rose to go. 

" You will be sure to write at the end of your journey, 
and let us know how you find things there, and when you 
are coming bcxck?" 

"I will write," said he; "an' I want you to write back 
•and tell me that you remember what I advised you some 
time ago." He took her hands, folded them in his own, 
kissed them reverently, and turned away. 

Mrs. Smiley watched him going down the garden-walk, 
as she had watched him a year before, and noted how slow 
and uncertain his steps had grown since then. At the gate 
he turned and waved his hand, and she in turn fluttered 
her little white handkerchief. Then she sat down with the 
handkerchief over her head, and sobbed for full five 
minutes. 

"There are things in life one cannot comprehend," she 
muttered to herself, "things we cannot dare to meddle 
with or try to alter; Providences, I suppose, they are. If 
God had made a man like that for me, of my own age, and 
given him opportunities suited to his capacities, and he had 
loved me as this man loves, what a life ours would have 
been!" 

The summer weather and bracing north-west breszes 
from the ocean renewed, in a measure, Mrs. Smiley's health, 
and restored her cheerful spirits; and, if she missed her old 
friend, she kept silent about it, as she did about most 
things that concerned herself. To Willie's questioning she 
gave those evasive rei^lies children are used to receive; but 
she frequently told him, in talks about his future, that Mr. 
Chillis had promised to send him to college, and that as 
long as he lived he must love and respect so generous a 



176 AN OLD FOOL. 

friend. "And, Willie," she never failed to add, "if ever 
you see an old man who is in need of anything; food, or 
clothes, or shelter; be very sure that you furnish them, as 
far as you are able." She was teaching him to pay his 
debt: "for, inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of 
these," he had done it unto his benefactor. 

September came, and yet no news had arrived from 
beyond the mountains. Captain Rumwaj-'s house was 
'finished up to the last touch of varnish. The lawn, and 
the shrubbery, and fence were all just as they should be; yet, 
so far as anj'body knew, no mistress had been provided for 
them, w'hen, one Avarm and hazy afternoon, Mrs. Smiley 
received an invitation to look at the completed mansion, 
and pass her judgment upon it. 

" I am going to furnish it in good style," said its master, 
rather vauntingly, Mrs. Smiley thought, "and I hoped you 
would be so good as to give me yonr assistance in making 
out a list of the articles required to fit the house up perfectly, 
from parlor to kitchen." 

" Any lady can furnish a list of articles for each room, 
Mr- Rumway, more or less costly, as you may order; but 
only the lady who is to live in the house can tell you wdiat 
will please her;" and she smiled the very shadow of a supe- 
rior smile. 

Mr. Rumway had foolishly thought to get his house fur- 
nished according to Mrs. Smiley's taste, and now found he 
should have to consult Mrs. Rumway's, present or prospect- 
ive, and the discovery annoyed him. Yet, whj' should he 
be annoyed ? AVas not the very opportunity presented that 
he had desii'ed, of renewing his proposal to her to take the 
establishment in charge? So, although it compelled him to 
change his programme, he accejjted the situation, and seized 
the tide at flood. 

" It is that lady — the one I entreat to come and live in 
it — whose wishes I now consult. Once more will you 
come ?" 



^.V OLD FOOL. 177 

Mrs. Smiley, tliough persistent!}' looking aside, had caught 
the eloquent glance of the Captain's dark eyes, and some- 
thing of the warmth of his face was reflected in her own. 
But she remained silent, looking at the distant highlands, 
without seeing them. 

"You must have seen," he continued, "that notwithstand- 
ing your former answer, I have been bold enough to hope 
you might change your mindj for, in everything I have 
done here, I have tried to follow your expressed wishes. I 
should in all else strive to make you as happy as by accejDt- 
ing this home you would make me. You do not answer; 
shall I say it is 'j'es?' " He bent so close that his dark, 
half-curling mop of hair just brushed her golden braids, 
and gave her a little shock like electricity, making her start 
away with a blush. 

" Will you give me time to decide upon my answer, Mr. 
Rumway ?" 

"You asked for time before," he replied, in an agitated 
voice, " and, after making me suffer a week of suspense, 
refused me." 

"I know it," she said simply, "and I was sorry I had 
asked it; but m^- reasons are even more imperative than 
they were then for wishing to delay. I want to decide 
right, at last," she added, Avitli a faint attemj^t at a smile. 

" That will be right which accords with your feelings, 
and certainly you can tell me now what they are — whether 
you find me the least bit lovable or not." 

The gray eyes flashed a look uj^ into the dark eyes, half 
of mirth and half of real inquiry. "I think one might 
learn to endure you, Mr. Eumway," she answered, de- 
murely. "But" — changing her manner — "lean not tell 
you whether or not I can marry you, until — until — well," 
she concluded desperately — " it may be a day, or a week, or 
a month. There is something to be decided, and until it is 
decided, I can not give an answer." 

Captain Rumway looked very rebellious. 
12 



178 ^^V OLD FOOL. 

"I do not ask you to wait, ]\Iv. Ruinway,'" said Mrs. 
Smiley, tormeutiugi}'. " Your Louse ueed not be loii<^- with- 
out a mistress." 

" Of course, I must Avait, if you give me the least ground 
of hope. This place was made for you, and no other woman 
shall ever come into it as my wife — that I swear. If you 
Avill not have me, I will sell it, and live a bachelor." 

Mrs. Smiley laughed softly and tunefully. " Perhaps 
you would prefer to limit your endurance, and tell me how 
long- you loill allow me to deliberate before you sell and re- 
tire to bachelorhood?" 

"You know very well," he returned, ruefully, "that I 
shall always be hoping against all reason that the wished- 
for answer was coming at last." 

" Then we will say no more about it at present." 

"And I may come occasionally to learn whether that 
'something' has been decided?" 

"Yes, if you have the patience for it. But, I warn 
you, there is a chance of my having to say 'No.'" 

" If there is only a chance of your having to say ' No,' I 
think I may incur the risk," said llumway, with a sudden 
accession of hopefulness; and, as they walked home to- 
gether once more, the gossips pronounced it an engage- 
ment. The Captain himself felt that it was, although, 
when he reviewed the conversation, he discovered that he 
founded his impression upon that one glance of the gray 
eyes, rather than upon anything that had been said. And 
Mrs. Smiley put the matter out of mind as much as pos- 
sible, and waited. 

One day, about the last of the month, a letter came to 
her from over the mountains. It ran in this wise: 

"Mv Lovely Lady: I am once more among the familyar 
seanes of 40 year ago. My son is hear, an' about as I ex- 
pected. I had ratiier be back at Clatsop, with tlie old bote; 
but, owin' to circumstances I can't controll, thiuk it better 
to end my dais on this side ov the mountains. You ueed 



AN OLD FOOL. 179 

not look for me to come back, but I send you an' the boy 
m}- best love, an' hope you hav done as I advised. 
"Yours, faithfully, til deth, 

" Joe Chillis." 

Soon after the receipt of this letter. Captain Rumvray 
called to inquire concerning the settlement of the matter 
on which his marriage depended. That evening he staid 
later than usual, and, in a long confidential talk which he 
had with Mrs. Smiley, learned that there was a condition 
attached to the con.summation of his wishes, which required 
his recognition of the claims of "poor old Joe" to be con- 
sidered a friend of the family. To do him justice, he 
yielded the point more gracefully than, from his conscious- 
ness of his own position, could have been expected. 

The next day, Mrs. Smiley wrote as follows: 

"Dear Mr. Chillis: I shall move into the new house 
about the last of October, according to your advice. AVe — 
tliat is, myself, and "Willie, and the present owner of the 
house— shall be delighted if you will come and stay with 
us. But if you decide to remain with your son, believe 
that Ave think of you very often and very affectionately, and 
wish you ever}' possible happiness. R. agrees with me 
that the land ought to be deeded back to you; and /think 
you had best return and get the benefit of it. It would 
make you very comfortable for life, properly managed, and 
about that we might help you. Please write and let us 
know what to do about it. 

" Yours affectionately, 

" Anxie Smiley." 

No reply ever came to this letter; and, as it was written 
ten years ago, Mrs. Rumway has ceased to expect any. 
Willie is about to enter Colleg-e. 



180 //'>"' ^ACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MIXE. 



now JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS :\IINE. 

THE passeuger train from the East came thundering 
down the head of the Humboldt Yalley, just as morn- 
ing brightened over the earth — refreshing eyes wearied with 
yesterdaj^'s mountains and canons, b}' a vision of green 
willows and ash trees, a stream that was not a torrent, and 
a stretch of grassy country. 

Among the faces oftenest turned to the flitting views Avas 
that of a young, gracefully-formed, neatl^'-dressed, deli- 
cate-looking woman. The large brown eyes often returned 
from gazing at the landscape, to scan with seriousness some 
memoranda she held in her hand. "Arrive at Elko at eight 
o'clock A.M." said the memorandum. Consulting a tiny 
watch, whose hands pointed to ten minutes of eight, the 
lady began making those little preparations which betoken 
the journey's end at hand. 

"What a strange looking place it is!" she thought, as 
the motley collection of board shanties and canvas houses 
came in sight; — for the famous Chloride District had been 
discovered but a few months before, and the Pacific Rail- 
road was only four weeks open. " I wish Jack had come 
to meet me! I'm sure I don't see how I am to find the 
stage agent to give him Jack's letter. What a number of 
i:)eople!" 

This mental ejaculation was called forth by the sight of 
the long platform in front of the eating-house, crowded 
with a surging mass of humanity just issuing from the din- 
ing-room. They were the passengers of the eastward- 
bound train, ready to rusli headlong for the cars when the 
momently-expected " All aboard!" should be shouted at 
them by the conductor. Into this crowd the freshly-ar- 
rived passengers of the westward-bound train were a mo- 



HOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS 2IIXE. 181 

nieut after ejected — each eyeing the other with a natural 
and pardonable interest. 

The brown-ejed, graceful young lady conducted herself 
in a ver}^ business-like manner — presenting the checks for 
her baggage; inquiring out the office of Wells, Fargo & 
Co., and handing in her letter, all in the briefest possible 
time. Having secured a seat in a coach to Chloride Hill, 
with the promise of the agent to call for her when the time 
for departure arrived, the lady repaired to the dining-room 
just in time to see her acquaintances of the train departing. 
Sitting down alone to a hastily-cooked and underdone re- 
jDast, she was about finishing a cup of bitter black cofiee 
with a little shudder of disgust, when a gentleman seated 
himself opposite her at table. The glance the stranger 
cast in her direction was rather a lingering one; then he 
ordered his breakfast and ate it. Meanwhile the lad}' re- 
tired to the ladies' sitting-room. 

After an hour of waiting, one, two, three, coaches rolled 
past the door, and the lady began to fear she had been for- 
gotten, when the polite agent appeared to notify " Mrs. 
Hastings" that "the stage was ready." This was Mrs. 
Alice Hastings, then — wife of Mr. Jack Hastings, of Deep 
Canon, Chloride District. The agent thought Mr. Hast- 
ings had a A'ery prett}' wife, and expressed his opinion in 
his manner, as men will. 

AVhen, just before starting, there entered three of the 
roughest-looking men she had ever encountered, Mrs. Hast- 
ings began to fear that in his zeal to obey instructions, the 
agent had exceeded them, and in packing the first three 
coaches with fix'st-comers, had left this one to catch up the 
fag end of travel. If the first impression, gained from 
sight, had made her shrink a little, what was her dismay 
when, at the end of ten minutes, one of her fellow-travel- 
ers — the only American of the three — produced a bottle of 
brandy, which, having ofi'ered it first to her, he passed to 
the bullet-headed Irishman and very shabby Jew: repeat- 
ing the courtesy once in twenty minutes for several times. 



182 JIOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD 11 JS MIXE. 

Mrs. Hastiugs was a brave sort of woman, where courage 
was needful; and she now began to consider the case in 
hand w'ith Avhat coohiess she could command. One hun- 
dred and thirty miles — eighteen or twenty hours of such 
companionship — with no chance of change or intermis.sion; 
a Avilderness country to travel over, and all the other coach- 
es a long way ahead. The dainty denizen of a city home, 
shuddering iuAvardl}', showed outwardly a serene counte- 
nance. Her American friend, with wicked black eyes and 
a jolly and reckless style of carrying himself, continued to 
oiler brandy at short intervals. 

"Best take some, Madame," said he; "this dust will 
choke you if you don't." 

"Thanks," returned the lady, with her sweetest smile, 
"I could not drink brandy. I have wine in my traveling- 
basket, should I need it; but much prefer w-ater." 

At the next station, although hardly four minutes were 
lost in changing horses, the men procured for her a cup of 
water. Mrs. Hastings' thanks were frank and cordial. She 
even carefully opened a conversation about the country 
they were passing over, and contrived to get them to ask a 
question or two about herself. When they learned that she 
had come all the way from New York on the newly-opened 
railroad, their interest w'as at its height; and when they 
heard that she was going to join her husband in the Chlor- 
ide District, their sympathy was thoroughly enlisted. 

"Wonderful — such a journey! How she could be six 
daj'S on the cars, and yet able to take such a stage-ride as 
this, is astonishing." 

Such were the American's comments. The Jew thought 
of the waiting husband — for your Israelite is a man of do- 
mestic and family affections. " Her husband looking for 
her, and she beliind time! How troubled he must be! 
Didn't he know how it was ? Wasn't his wife gone away on 
a visit once, and didn't write; and he a running to the ex- 
press office every morning and evening for a letter, and get- 



HOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 183 

ting so anxious as to telegraph ? Such an expense and loss 
of time !- — and all because he felt so uneasy about his wife ! ' ' 

The bullet-headed young Irishman said nothing. He 
was about half asleep from brandy and last night's travel; 
too stupid to know that bis hat had flown out of the window, 
and was bowling along in the wind and dust half a mile 
behind — all the better for his head, which looked at a red 
heat now. 

The lady had lifted the rude men w]) to her level, when 
directly they were ashamed of their brandy and other vices, 
and began to show instinctive traits of gentlemen. By the 
time they arrived at the dinner station, where half an hour 
was allowed for food and rest out of the eighteen or twenty, 
she had at least two humble servitors, who showed great 
concern for her comfort. 

The day began to wane. They had traveled continuous!}* 
over a long stretch of plain between two mountain ranges, 
over a country entirely uninhabited except by the stage 
company's employees, who kept the stations and tended 
the stock. This lone woman had seen but one other woman 
on the road. Plenty of teams — great " prairie schooners,'' 
loaded with every conceivable thing for suiDplj'ing the 
wants of an isolated non-producing community, and drawn 
by ten or fourteen mules — had been j^assed through the 
day. 

As night fell, Mrs. Hastings saw what she had never be- 
fore seen or imagined — the camps of these teamsters by the 
roadside; horses and mules staked, or tied to the wagons; 
the men lying prone upon the earth, wrapped in blankets, 
their dust-blackened faces turned uj^ to the frost}' twinkling- 
stars. Did people really live in that way? — how many su- 
pertluous things were there in a city! 

The night was moonless and clear, and cold as at that 
altitude they always are. Sleep, from the roughness of the 
road, was impossible. Her comj^anions dozed, and woke 
with exclamations when the lieavv lurchintj's of the coach 



18-4 now JACK JIAST/XGS SOLD HIS MINE. 

disturbed tliem too roughly. Mrs. Hastings never closed 
lier eyes. "When morning dawned, thej' were on the top 
of a range of mountains, like those that had been in sight 
all the day before. Down these heights they rattled away, 
and at four in the morning entered the streets of Chloride 
Hill — ^a city of board and canvas houses. Arrived at the 
stage office, the lady looked penetratingly into the crowd of 
men always waiting for the stages, but saw no face she 
recognized. Yes, one^ — and that the face of the gentleman 
who sat down opposite her at table in Elko. 

" Permit me," he said; "I think 3'ou inquired for Mr. 
Hastings ? " 

" I did; he is m}^ husband. I expected to find him here," 
she replied, feeling that sense of injury and desire to cry 
which tired women feel, jostled about in a crowd of men. 

Leaving her a moment to say something to an employee 
of the ofifice, the stranger returned immediately, saying to 
the man: "Take this lady to Mrs. Robb's boarding-house." 
Then to her: "I will inquire for your husband, and send 
him to you if he is in town. The hack does not go over to 
Deep Canon for several hours yet. Meanwhile you had 
better take some rest. You must be greatly fatigued." 

Fatigued! her head swam round and round; and she 
really was too much exhausted to feel as disappointed as she 
might at Jack's non-appearance. Much relieved by the 
prospect of a place to rest in, she followed the man sum- 
moned to escort her, and fifteen minutes after was sound 
asleep on a sofa of the boarding-house. 

Three hours of sleep and a partial bath did much to re- 
store tired nature's equilibrium; and, although her head 
still felt absurdly light, Mrs. Hastings enjoyed the really 
excellent breakfast provided for her, wondering how sucli 
delicacies ever got to Chloride Hill. Breakfast over, and 
no news of Jack, the time began to drag weaiily. She was 
more than half inclined to be angry — only relenting when 
she remembered that she was two or three days behind 



HOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 185 

time, and of course Jack could not know wbeu to expect 
her. She had very full directions, and if she could not 
find her way to Deep Cafion she Avas a goose, that was all! 

So she sent for the driver of the hack, told him to get her 
baggage from the express office; and started for Deep Can- 
on. "Who should she find in the hack but her friend of the 
morning ! 

" I could not hear of 3'our husband," said he; " but you 
are sure to find him at home." 

Mrs. Hastings smiled faintly, and hoped she should. 
Then she gave her thoughts to the peculiar scenery of the 
country, and to the sharpness of the descent, as they whirled 
rapidly down the four miles of canon at the bottom of which 
Avas the town of that name — another one of those places 
which had "come up as a flower" in a morning. She 
longed to ask about her husband and his " home"; but as 
there were several persons in the stage, she restrained her 
anxiet}', and said never a word until they stopped before 
the door of a saloon where all the other passengers alighted. 
Then she told the driver she wanted to be taken to Mr. 
Hastings' house. 

He didn't know where that was, he said, biit would in- 
quire. 

Did he know Dr. Earle ? 

"That's him, ma'am;" pointing out her friend of the 
morning. 

"How can I serve you?" he asked, raising his hat po- 
litely. 

Mrs. Hastings blushed rosily, between vexation at Jack's 
invisibility and confusion at being so suddenly confronted 
with Dr. Earle. 

" Mr. Hastings instructed me to inquire of 3'ou, if I had 
any difficulty in finding him," she said, apologetically. 

"I will show 3'ou his place with pleasure," returned the 
Doctor pleasantly; and, jumping on the box, proceeded to 
direct the driver. 



18G ^f'>^y JACK HASTINGS SOLD II IS MINE. 

Had ladies of Mrs. Hastings' style been as plenty in Deep 
Canon as in New York, the driver would have grumbled at 
the no road he had to follow along the stony side of a hill 
and among the stnmps of mahogany trees. Bnt there were 
few like her in that mountain town, and his chivalry com- 
pelled him to go out of his way with ever}' appearance of 
cheerfulness. Presently the stage stopped where the slop- 
ing ground made it ver}^ uncertain how long it could main- 
tain its balance in that position; and the voice of Dr. Earle 
was heard saying " This is the place." 

Mrs. Hastings, wdao had been looking out for some sign 
of home, was seized with a doubt of the credibility of her 
senses. It was on the tip of her tongue to say " This must 
be the house of some other Mr. Hastings," when slie re- 
membered prudence, and said nothing. Getting out and 
going towaid the house to inquire, the door opened, and a 
man in a rough mining suit came quickly forward to meet 
her. 

"Alice!" 

"Jack!" 

Dr. Earle and the driver studiously looked the other way 
while salutations were exchanged between Mr, and Mrs. 
Hastings. When they again ventured a look, the lady had 
disappeared within the cabin, the first glimpse of which had 
so dismayed her. 

That afternoon, Jack initiated Alice into the mysteries of 
cooking by an open fire, and expatiated largely on the 
merits of his outside kitchen. Alice hinted to him that she 
was accustomed to sleep on something softer than a board, 
and the two went together to a store to purchase materials 
out of which to make a mattrass. 

After that, for two or three weeks, Mrs. Hastings was 
industriously engaged in wondering what her husband 
meant when he wrote that he bad built a house, and was 
getting things ready to receive her. Reason or romance as 
she might, she could not make that single room of rough 



HO W JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 187 

boards, roofed with leaky canvas and unfurnished with a 
single comfort of life, into a house or home. At last. Jack 
seemed to guess her thoughts, for she never spoke them. 

"If I could sell my mine," he then often said, " I could 
fix things up." 

"If you sold your mine. Jack, you would go back to New 
York, and then there would be no need of fixing up this 
place," Alice wanted to say " horrid" place, but refrained. 

At length, from uncongenial air, water, food, and cir- 
cumstances in general, the transplanted flower began to 
droop. The great heat and rarified mountain air caused 
frantic headaches, aggravated by the glare which came 
through the white canvas roof. Then came the sudden 
mountain tempests, when the rain deluged everything, and 
it was hard to find a spot to stand in where the water did 
not drip through. She grew wild, looking forever at bare 
mountain sides simmering in the sun by day, and at night 
over their tops up to the piercing stars. A constant anxious 
fever burnt in her blood, that the cold night air could not 
quench, though she often left her couch to let it blow chilly 
over her, in her loose night robes. Then she fell really ill. 

Sitting by her bedside. Jack said: " If I could sell my 
mine!" And she had answered, "let the mine go. Jack, 
and let us go home. Nothing is gained by stopping in this 
dreadful place." 

Then Mr. Hastings had replied to her, "I have no 
mone}', Alice, to go home with, not a cent. I borrowed ten 
dollars of Earle to-day to buy some fruit for you." 

That was the last straw that broke the camel's back. Be- 
night Mrs. Hastings was delirious, and Dr. Earle was 
called. 

" She has a nervous fever," he said, " and needs the care- 
fullest nursing." 

"Which she cannot have in this d — d place," Mr. Has- 
tings replied., profanely. 

"Why don't you try to get something to do?" asked 
Earle of the sad-visaged husband, a day or two after. 



188 JfOW JACK J/AST/NOS So I J) Ills JIISE. 

" "What is there to do? Everything is Hat; there is neither 
business nor money in this cursed country. I've stayed 
here trying- to sell my mine, until I'm dead broke; iiothing 
to live on here, and nothing to get out with. What I'm to 
do with my wife there, I don't know. Let her die, per- 
haps, and throw her bones up that ravine to bleach in the 
sun. God! what a position to be in!" 

" But you certainly must projiose to do something, and 
that speedily. Couldn't you see it was half that that 
brought this illness on your wife; the inevitable which she 
saw closing down upon you ?" 

"If I cannot sell my mine soon, I'll blow out my brains, 
as that poor German did last week. Alice heard the report 
of the shot which killed him, and I think it hastened on 
her sickness." 

" And so you propose to treat he;.- to another such scene, 
and put an end to her?" said Earle, savagely. 

" Better so than to let her starve," Jack returned, grow- 
ing pale Avith the burden of possibilities which oppressed 
him. " How the devil I am to save her from that last, I 
don't know. There is neither business, money, nor credit 
in this infernal town. I've been everywhere in this district, 
asking for a situation at something, and cannot get any- 
thing better than digging ground on the new road." 

"Even that might be better than starving," said Dr. 
Earle. 

Jack was a faithful nurse; Dr. Earle an attentive physi- 
cian; young people with elastic constitutions diehard: so 
Alice began to mend, and in a fortnight Avas convalescent. 
Jack got a situation in a quartz mill where the Doctor was 
part owner. 

Left all day alone in the cabin, Alice began staring again 
at the dreary mountains whose walls inclosed her on every 
side. The bright scarlet and yellow flowers which grew out 
of their parched soil sometimes tempted her to a brief walk; 
but the lightness of the air fatigued her, and she did not 
care to clamber after them. 



HOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS JIIXB. 189 

One da}-, being loneh-, she thought to please Jack by 
dressing- in something pretty and going to the mill to see 
him. So, laying aside the wrapper which she had worn al- 
most constaiitl}^ lately, she robed herself in a delicate linen 
lawn, donned a coquettish little hat and parasol, and set 
out for the mill, a mile away. Something in the thought 
of the pleasant surprise it would be to Jack gave her strength 
and animation; and though she arrived somewhat out of 
breath, she looked as dainty and fresh as a rose, and Jack 
was immensely proud and flattered. He introduced her to 
the head of the firm, showed her over the mill, pointed out 
to her the mule-train packing wood for the engine fires, got 
the amalgamator to give her specimens, and in every way 
showed his delight. 

After an hour or so she thought about going home; but 
the walk home looked in prospect very much longer than 
the walk to the mill. In truth, it was harder by reason of 
being up-hill. But opportunely, as it seemed, just as Jack 
was seeing her off the door-stone of the office, Dr. Earle 
drove up, and, comprehending the situation, offered to take 
Mrs. Hastings to her own door in his carriage, if she would 
graciously allow him five minutes to see the head man in. 

When they were seated in the carriage, a rare luxury in 
Deep Canon, and had driven a half mile in embarrassed 
silence — for Mrs. Hastings somehow felt ashamed of her 
husband's dependence upon this man, — the Doctor spoke, 
and what he said was this: 

"Your life is very uncongenial to you; you wish to es- 
cape from it, don't you ?" 

" Yes, I wish to escape; that is the word which suits my 
feeling — a very strange feeling it is." 

" Describe it,'*^ said the Doctor, almost eagerly. 

" Ever since I left the railroad, in the midst of a wilder- 
ness and was borne for so many hours away into the heart 
of a stiil more desert wilderness, my consciousness of things 
has been very much confused. I can only w4th difficulty 



190 JfOW JACK IIASTIXGS SOLD Ills MINE. 

realize tluxt there is any siicli place as New York; and San 
Francisco is a fable. The world seems a great liare mount- 
ain ])lane; and I am hanging on to its edge by my finger- 
tips, ready to drop aM'ay into space. Can you account for 
such impressions?" 

" Easily, if I chose. May I tell you something?" 

"What is it?" 

" I've half a mind to run awaj' with you." 

Now, as Dr. Earle was a rather young and a very hand- 
some man, had been very kind, and was now looking at her 
with eyes actually moistened with tears, a sudden sense of 
being on the edge of a pitfall overcame Mrs. Hastings; 
and she turned pale and red alternately. Yet, with the in- 
stinct of a pure woman, to avoid recognizing an ugly 
thought, she answered with a laugh as gay as she could 
make it. 

" If you Avere a witch, and offered me half of your broom- 
stick to New York, I don't know but I should take it; — 
that is, if thei'e was room on it anywhere for Jack." 

"There wouldn't be," said the Doctor, and said no 
more. 

The old fever seemed to have returned that afternoon. 
The hills glared so that Mrs. Hastings closed the cabin 
door to shut out the burning vision. The ground-squirrels, 
thinking from the silence that no one was within, ran up 
the mahogany tree at the side, and scampered over the 
canvas roof in glee. One, more intent on gain than the 
rest, invaded Jack's outside kitchen, knocking down the 
tin dishes with a clang, and scattering the dirt from the 
turf roof over the flour-sack and the two white plates. 
Every sound made her heart beat faster. Afraid of the 
silence and loneliness at last, she reopened the door; and 
then a rough-looking man came to the entrance, to inquire 
if there were any silver leads up the ravine. 

Leads? she could not say: prospectors in plenty there 
were. 



HOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 191 

Then lie went Lis way, having satisfied his curiosity; and 
the door was closed again. Some stragg-ling donkeys 
wandered near, Avliich were mistaken for "Diggers;" and 
dreading their glittering e^'es, the nervous prisoner drew 
the curtain over the one little sliding window. There was 
nothing to read, nothing to sew, no housekeeping duties, 
because no house to keep; she was glad when the hour 
arrived for preparing the late afternoon meal. 

That night she dreamed that she was a skeleton lying up 
the canon — the sunshine parching her naked bones; that 
Dr. Earle'came along with a pack-train going to the mill, 
and i^icking her up carefully, laid her on tojj of a bundle 
of wood; that the Mexican driver covered her up with a 
blanket, which so smothered her that she awakened, and 
started up gasping for breath. The feeling of suffocation 
continuing, she stole softly to the door, and opening it, let 
the chill}' night air blow over her. Most persons would 
have found Mr. Hastings' house freely ventilated, but some 
way poor Alice found it hard to breathe in it. 

The summer was passing; times grew, if possible, harder 
than before. The prospectors, who had found plent}' of 
" leads," had spent their " bottom dollar " in opening them 
up and in waiting for purchasers, and were going back- to 
California any way they could. The capitalists were hold- 
ing oft', satisfied that in the end all the valuable mines 
Avould fall into their hands, and caring nothing how fared 
the brave but unlucky discoverers. In fact, they overshot 
themselves, and made hard times for their own mills, the 
miners having to stop getting out rock. 

Then Jack lost his situation. Very soon food began to 
be scarce in the cabin of Mr. Hastings. Scanty as it was, 
it was more than Alice craved; or rather, it was not what 
she craved. If she ate for a day or two, for the next two 
or three days she suffered with nausea and aversion to any- 
thing which the outside kitchen afforded. Jack seldom 
mentioned his mine now, and looked haggard and hope- 



102 ^/<^>"' JACK IT A STINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 

less. The conversation between her husband and Dr. 
Earle, recorded elsewhere, hud been overheard by Alice, 
lying half conscious; and she had never forgotten the 
threat about blowing out his brains in case he failed to sell 
his mine. Trifling as such an apprehension may appear to 
another, it is not unlikely that it had its eft'ect to keep up 
her nervous condition. The summer was going — was gone. 
Mrs. Hastings had not met Dr. Earle for several weeks; 
and, despite herself, when the worst fears oppressed her, 
her first impulse was to turn to him. It had always seemed 
so easy for him to do what he liked ! 

Perhaps he Avas growing anxious to know if he could 
give the thumb-screw another turn. At all events, he 
directed his steps toward Mr. Hastings' house on the after- 
noon of tlie last day in August. Mrs. Hastings received 
him at the threshold and offered him the camp-stool — the 
only chair she had — in the shade outside the door; at the 
same time seating herself upon the door-step with the same 
grace as if it had been a silken sofa. 

She was not daintly dressed this afternoon; for that lux- 
ury, like others, calls for the expenditure of a certain amount 
of money, and money Alice had not — not even enough to 
pay a Chinaman for "doing up " one of her pretty muslins. 
Neither had she the facilities for doing them herself, had she 
been skilled in that sort of labor; for even to do your own 
washing and ironing pre-supposes the usual conveniences of 
a laundry, and these did not belong to the furniture of the 
outside kitchen. She had not worn her linen lawn since 
the visit to the mill. The dust which blcAv freely through 
every crack of the shrunken boards precluded such extrav- 
agance. Thus it happened that a soiled cashmere AvrajDper 
was her afternoon wear. She had faded a good deal since 
her coming to Deep Caiion; but still looked pretty and 
graceful, and rather too spirUucUe. 

The Doctor held in his hand, on the point of a knife, the 
flower of a cactus verv common in the mountains, which 



HOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 193 

he presented ber, waruing lier at the same time against its 
needle-like thorns. 

" It makes me sick," said Alice hastily, throwing it away. 
" It is the color of gold, which I want so much; and of the 
sunshine, which I hate so." 

" I brought it to you to show you the little emerald bee 
that is always to be found in one: it is wonderously beau- 
tiful, — a living gem, is it not?" 

"Yes, I know," Alice said, " I admired the first one I 
saw; but I admire nothing any longer — nothing at least 
which surrounds me here." 

"I understand that, of course," returned the Doctor. 
"It is because your health is failing you — because the air 
disagrees with you." 

" And because my husband is so unfortunate. If he 
could only get away from here — and I!" The vanity of 
such a supposition, in their present circumstances, brought 
the tears to her ej^es and a quiver about her mouth. 

"Why did you ever come here! Why did he ever ask 
you to come; — how dared he?" demanded the Doctor, set- 
ting his teeth together. 

" That is a strange question. Doctor!" Mrs. Hastings 
answered with dignity, lifting her head like an antelope. 
* ' My husband was deceived by the same hopes which have 
ruined others. If I suffer, it is because we are both un- 
fortunate." 

" What will he do next?" questioned the Doctor curtly. 
The cruel meaning caused the blood to forsake her cheeks. 

"I cannot tell what he will do," — -her brief answer 
rounded by an expressive silence. 

" You might help him: shall I point out the way to you?" 
— watching her intently. 

" Can you? can I help him?" — her whole form suddenly 
inspired with fresh life. 

Dr. Earle looked into her eager face with a passion of 
jealous inquiry that made her cast down her eyes : 
13 



194 now JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 

" Alice, do 3''ou love tbis Hastings?" 

He called Ler Alice; he used a tone and asked a question 
which could not be misunderstood. Mrs. Hastings dropped 
her face into her hands, her hands upon her knees. She 
felt like a wild creature which the dogs hold at bay. She 
knew now what the man meant, and the temptation he 
used. 

" Alice," he said again, " this man, your husband, pos- 
sesses a prize he does not value; or does not know how to 
care for. Shall you stay here and starve with him ? Is he 
worth it ?" 

" He is my husbaud," she answered simply, liftiiig up her 
face, calm, if mortally pale. 

" And I might be your hvisband, after a brief interval," 
he said quickly, " There would have to be a divorce; — it 
could be conducted quietly. I do not ask you to commit 
yourself to dishonor. I will shield you; no care shall fall 
upon you, nor any reproach. Consider this well, dearest 
darling Alice! and what will be your fate if you depend 
upon him." 

"Will it help him then, to desert him?" she asked 
faintly. 

"Yes, unless by remaining with him you can insure his 
support. Maintain you he cannot. Suppose his mine were 
sold, he would waste that money as he wasted what he 
brought here. I don't want his mine, yet I will buy it to- 
morrow if that will satisfy you, and I have your promise to 
go with me. I told you once that I wanted to run away 
with you, and now I mean to. Shall I tell you my plan? " 

"No, not to-day," Mrs. Hastings answered, struggling 
with her pain and embarrassment; "I could not bear it to- 
day, I think." 

" How cruel I am while meaning to be kind! You are 
agitated as jow ought not to be in j'our weak state. Shall 
I see you to-morrow — a professional visit, you know ? " 

"You will buy the mine?" — faintly, with something like 
a blush. 



HOW JACK HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 195 

"Certainly; I swear I will — on what conditions, you 
know." 

" On none other?" 

" Shall I rob myself, not of money only, but of what is 
far dearer ? — On none oilier." He rose, took her cold hand, 
clasped it fervently, and went away. 

When Jack came home to his very meagre dinner, he 
brought a can of peaches, which, being opened, looked so 
deliciously cool and tempting that Alice could not refrain 
fi'om volubly exulting over them. " But how did you get 
them. Jack?" she asked; " not by going into debt, I hope." 

" No. I was in Scott's store, and Earle, happening to 
come in just as Scott was selling some, and praising them 
highly, paid for a can, and asked me to take them to you 
and get your opinion. They are splendid, b}' Jove! " 

"I do not fancy them," said Alice, setting down her 
plate; " but don't tell the Doctor," she added hastily. 

" You don't fancy anything, lately, Alice," Mr. Hastings 
replied, rather crossly. 

" Never mind, Jack; my appetite will come when you 
have sold your mine;" and upon that the unreasonably fas- 
tidious woman burst into teai's. 

" As if my position is not trying enough without seeing 
you cry!" said Jack, pausing from eating long enough to 
look injured. Plastic Jack! your surroundings were hav- 
ing their effect on you. 

The Mining News of the second of September had a no- 
tice of the sale of Mr. Hastings' mine, the " Sybil," bearing 
chloride of silver, to Dr. Eustance Earle, all of DeepCafion. 
The papers to be handed over and cash paid down at Chlo- 
ride Hill on the seventh; at which time Dr. Earle would 
start for San Francisco on the business of the mining firm 
to which he belonged. Mr. Hastings, it was understood, 
would go east about the same time. 

All the parties were at Chloride Hill on the morning of 
the seventh, promptly. By eleven o'clock, the above-men- 
tioned transaction was completed. Shortly after, one of 



19G ^/'>II' ^vlC'A' HASTINGS SOLD HIS MINE. 

the Opposition Line's stages stopped at Mrs. llobb's board- 
ing-house, and a lady, dressed for traveling, stepped quickly 
into it. Having few acquaintances, and being- closely veiled, 
the lady passed unrecognized at the stage-office, where the 
other passengers got in. 

Half an hour afterwards Mr. Jack Hastings received the 
following note: 

"Deak Jack: I sold 3'our mine for you. Dr. Earle is 
running away with me, per agreement; but if you take the 
express this afternoon, you will reach Elko before the train 
leaves for San Francisco to-morrow. There is nothing- 
worth going back for at Deep Canon. If you love me, save 
me. Devotedly, 

"Alice." 

It is superfluous to state that Jack took the express, which, 
arriving at Elko before the Opposition, made him master of 
the situation. Not that he felt very masterful: he didn't. He 
was thinking of many things that it hurt him to remember; 
but he was meaning to do differently in future. He had at 

last sold his mine — no, he'd be d d if he had sold it; 

but — Hallo! there's a big dust out on the road there! — it 
must be the other stage. Think what you'll do and say. 
Jack Hastings! 

What he did aaj was: "Ah, Doctor! you here? It was 
lucky for my Avife, w'as n't it, since I got left, to have you 
to look after her? Thanks, old fellow; you are just in time 
for the train. Alice and I will stop over a day to rest. A 
thousand times obliged: good-bye! Alice, say good-bye to 
Doctor Earle! yon will not see him again." 

Their hands and eyes met. He was pale as marble: she 
flushed one instant, paled the next, with a curious expres- 
sion in her ej-es which the Doctor never forgot and never 
quite understood. It was enough to know that the game 
was up. He had another mine on his hands, and an uglj' 
pain in his heart which he told himself bitterly would be 
obstinate of cure. If he only could be sure what that look 
in her eyes had meant! 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAB. 197 



WHAT THEY TOLD JME AT WILSON'S BAR. 

THE mining season was ended in the narrow valley of 
one of the Sacramento's northern tributaries, as, in 
fact, it was throughout the whole region of "placer dig- 
gings ; " for it was October of a dry year, and water 
had failed earl}^ in all the camps. The afternoon of 
a long, idle day at Wilson's Bar was drawing to a close. 
The medium through which the sun's hot rays reached the 
jDarched earth was one of red dvist, the effect of which was 
that of a mellow Indian summer haze, pleasing to the eye, 
if abhored by the skin and lungs, compelled to take it in, 
whether brute or human. In the landscape was an incon- 
gruous mingling of beaut}' and deformity; the first, the 
work of nature; the last, the marring of man. 

To the east and to the west rose hills, whose ruggedness 
was softened by distance to outlines of harmonious gran- 
deur. Scattered over the valley between them, the stately 
" digger," or nut-pines, grew at near intervals, singly or in 
groups of three or five, harmonizing by their pale graj'-green 
with the other half-tints of earth, air, and sky. Following 
the course of the dried up river was a line, more or less 
continuous, of the evergreen oaks, whose round, spreading 
toi:)S are such a grateful relief to the eje in the immense 
levels of the lower Sacramento and upper San Joaquin 
valleys. Depending from these, hung long, venerable-look- 
ing beards of gray moss, as devoid of color as everything 
else in the landscape; everything else, except the California 
wild graj^e, which, so far from being devoid of color, was 
gorgeous enough in itself to lighten up the whole fore- 
ground of the picture. Growing in clumiDS upon the 
ground, it was gay as a bed of tulij^js. Clambering up oc- 
casional tall trees, it flaunted its crimson and party-colored 



198 WJ/AT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAIL 

foliage Avitli true baccLaualian jollity, cacli leaf seeming 
drunk Avitli its own red wine. There is truly nothing that 
grows in the Golden State more beautiful than the VUus 
Californica in October. 

That was Nature's side of the picture. The reverse was 
this: the earth everywhere torn and disfigured by prospect- 
ors, whose picks had produced the effect of some huge 
snout of swine, applied with the industry' characteristic of 
that animal in forbidden grounds. Rude cabins were scat- 
tered about, chiefly in the neighborhood of the stream. 
Rockers, sluice-boxes, and sieves strewed its borders. 
Along the dusty road which led to "Wilson's Bar toiled 
heavily laden trains of freight-wagons, carrying supi^lies 
for the coming winter. At each little deviation from the 
general level, the eight-mule teams strained every muscle; 
the dust-enswathed drivers swore franticly and whipped 
mercilessly; the immense wagons groaned and creaked, 
and — the world moved on, however much the pained ob- 
server might wish to bring it to a stand-still. 

A rosy sunset beyond the western mountains was casting 
its soft glamour over the scene — hap^:)ily not without one 
appreciative beholder — when Bob Matheny's wagon drew 
up in front of the Traveler's Rest, the princijial hotel of 
"Wilson's Bar. From the commotion which ensued irame- 
diatel}'^ thereupon, it Avould appear that Matheny was a 
l^ersou wudel}^ and also somewhat favorably known; such 
ejaculations as '• Hulloa! thar's Bob Matheny," " How-dy, 
old feller!" and many other similar expressions of welcome 
greeting him on all sides, as he turned from blocking the 
wheels of his wagon, which else might have backed down 
the slight incline that led to Traveler's Rest. 

At the same moment that the hand-shaking was progress- 
ing, a young woman, mounted on a handsome filly, rode 
up to the rude steps of the hotel and pre2-)ared to dismount; 
and Bob Matheny instantly broke away from his numerous 
friends, to lift her from the saddle, which act occasioned a 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAB. 199 

sympathetic smile in that same numerous circle, and a 
whisper ran round it, half audible, to the effect that Bob 
had " bin gittin' married," " A dog-goned purty gal," "The 
old cock's puttin' on frills," and similar appropriate remarks, 
ad wfinilum. In the meantime — the youDg woman disap- 
pearing within the hotel, and Matheny occupying himself 
firstly with the wants of his team, and lastly with his own 
and those of his traveling companion — gossij) had busily 
circulated the report among the idlers of Wilson's Bar that 
Bob Matheny had taken to himself a j^oung wife, who was 
accompanying him on his monthly trip to the mountains. 
This report was published with the usual verbal commenta- 
ries, legends, and annotations; as relevant and piquant as 
that sort of gossip usually is, and as elegant as, from the 
dialect of AYilson's Bar, might be expected. 

Late that evening, a group of honest miners discussed 
the matter in the Star Empire Saloon. 

" He's the last man I'd a-suspected ov doin' sech a act," 
said Tom Davis, with a manly grief upon his honest coun- 
tenance, as he hid the ace and right-bower under the brim 
of his ragged old sombrero, and proceeded to play the left 
upon the remainder of that suit — with emphasis, " the very 
last man!" 

" It's a powerful temptation to a feller in his shoes," re- 
marked the tall Kentuckian on bis right. "A young gal is 
a mighty purty thing to look at, and takes a man's mind 
off from his misfortin's. You mind the verse, don't ye: 

' Sorrows I divide, and joys I double ?' " 

"And give this world a world o' trouble," subjoined 
Davis's i^artner, with a good natured laugh at his own wit. 
"It's 3^our deal, Huxly. Look and see if all the cards are 
in the pack. Deuced if I don't susjDect somebody's hidin' 
them." 

"Every keerd's thar thet I lied in my hands, ef you mean 
me," said the Kentuckian, sharply. 



200 WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAR. 

" Wucal, I don't mean you. A feller may have his little 
joke, I suppose." 

" Depends on the kind o' jokes. Here's the two niissin' 
keerds on the floor. Now, ef you say I put 'em thar, it's a 
little joke I reckon I won't stand. Sabe?" 

"Come, I'll pay for the drinks, old fel', if you'll allow 
me to apologize. Waiter, drinks all round. What' 11 you 
take, gentlemen?" 

"Now, that's what I call blarsted 'an'some," remarked 
Huxley, who was an Englishman from Australia: 

' Friend of nic soul, tliis <,'olilet sip, 

'Twill dry the .starting tear; 
'Tis not so brij^dit as woman's lip, 

But oh, 'tis more sincere!' 

Here's to ye, me hearties." 

"Which brings us back to our subject," responded 
Davis's partner, commonly called " Gentleman Bill," as the 
glasses were drained and sent away. " Do you believe in 
curses, Kentuck?" 

" B'lieve in cusses? Don't the Bible tell about cussin'? 
Wasn't thar an old man in the Bible — I disremember his 
name — that cussed one of his sons, and blessed t'other one? 
I reckon I do b'lieve in cussin'." 

His interlocutor laughed softly at the statement and ar- 
gument. "Did you ever know any body to be cursed in 
such a manner that it was plain he was under a ban of un- 
intermitting vengeance ?" 

" Ef 3'ou mean did I ever know a man as was cussed, I 
ken say I did, onct. He was a powerful mean man — a nig- 
ger-driver down in Tennessee. He was orful to swear, and 
cruel to the niggers, an' his wife besides. One day she 
died an' left a mite of a bab}-; an' he was so mad he swore 
he ' wouldn't bury her; the neighbors might bur}- her, an' 
the brat, too, if they liked.' As he was a-swearin' an' a- 
tearin' with all his might, an' a-callin' on God to cuss him 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAR. 201 

ef be diclu't do so au' so, all of a suddent, just as bis moutb 
opened witb a oath, he was struck speechless, an' never 
has spoke a word till this day! — leastways, not that I ever 
heard ov." 

" That is what I should call a special examijle of Divine 
wrath," said Gentleman Bill, deftly dealing- the cards for 
a new game. "What I meant to ask was, whether any 
one, 3'ourself especially, had ever known one man to curse 
another man so as to bring ruin upon him, in spite of his 
will to resist it." 

" Waal, I've heern tell of sech things; can't say as I 
know such a man, without it's Bob Matheny. He says he's 
cussed; an' I reckon he is. Everybody in Wilson's Bar has 
heern about that." 

'•Xot everybody, for I am still ignorant of his story. 
Was that why Mr. Davis objected so strongly to his mar- 
riage ? I beg-in to be interested. Count me another game, 
j)artner. I should like to hear about Mr. Matheny." 

"You may tell the story, Davis," said Kentuck, magnan- 
imously. " I want ter chaw terbacker fur awhile, an' I 
can't talk an' chaw." 

Tom Davis gladly took up the theme, as it gave liim an 
opportunity to display bis oratorical and rhetorical abili- 
ties, of which he was almost as proud as he was of his 
skill in hiding cards in his sleeves, his hat, his hair, his 
boots. 

" Gentlemen," he began, hesitating- an instant — while, 
attention being fixed on what he was about to say, he 
stocked the cards — " gentlemen, it's one of the curusest 
things you ever heerd in yer life. It seems thar was a wo- 
man at the bottom of it — I believe thar allers is at the bot- 
tom of everything. Waal, he stole another man's sun- 
flower — ^I've heerd Bob say so, hisself — an' the other feller 
got mad — as mad as thunder — an', when he found his gal 
had vamosed with Bob, he cursed him; an' his curse was 
this : that as long as he lived all that he did should prosper 



202 W/fAT THEY rOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAH. 

for a little while, au' jest wlicu he begun to eiij'y it, a curse 
should come outo it. Ef it wor business, when he thought 
he was sure of a good thing, it should fail, Ef it wor love, 
the woman he loved should die. Ef it wor children, they 
should grow up, and turn agin' him; or, if they stuck to 
him, the same curse should be on them; what the}' under- 
took should fail; "what they loved should die.'' , 

"Did the woman he loved die? did his children desert 
him?" asked the Englishman, eagerly. 

"His wife died seven j-ear arter he married her; one ov 
his boj's was killed by his horse fallin' on him; the other 
got into bad company down to Red Bluffs, an', arter leadin' 
the old man a devil of a life for two year or more, run off, 
an' got taken by the lynchers — so folks said. I b'lieve he 
has a gal, back in the States; but his wife's folks won't let 
her come to Californy. They're a-eddicatin' her quite 
grand, an' she writes a powerfvd nice letter. The old man 
showed me one, last time he was up to the Bar. Han'some 
as any school-marm's ever ye saw. But Bob says he don't 
see what's the use; somethin's sure to happen her; some- 
thin' allers does hapi^eu to him an' to his chillern.'' 

" Is that why he thinks he's cursed — because ' something 
always haj^pens?' " asked Gentleman Bill, indifferently. 

" Sart'iu; an' it's so, as sure as yer born. Nothiu' never 
pans out long wuth Bob Matheny. His begiuuin's is all 
good, an' his endin's all bad. I reckon thar never was a 
man to Wilson's Bar has been cleaned eout, down to the 
bed-rock, as often as Matheny." 

" Is he a good man?" asked the Englishman, interested. 

"Never had a better man to Wilson's Bar," responded 
Kentuck, decidedly, as he cast his quid under the table. 
" He ain't a luck}^ feller, an' he's might}' superstitious an' 
the like; but I make a heap o' Bob Matheny. His luck an' 
his cuss don't hurt him none for me. It's jest a notion, 
mebbe." 

" Notion or no notion," said Davis, with a knowing leer. 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAB. 203 

" he's not the man to marry a nice gal like that 'nn he's got 
ujD to the Rest. Better let her be for some lucky young 
feller as could make her happy. Don't you say so, boys?" 

While the laugh went round, the crowd that had been 
gradually collecting" and listening to the story, began to 
move, and then to part, as the man so much talked of forced 
his way toward the group of speakers. 

"Hold yer tongue, Tom Davis," said Kentuck. " Hul- 
loa, Bob! take my hand, won't ye? I'll introduce ye to my 
friends. My pardner is Huxly — a tip-top feller, as you'll 
diskiver fur yerself. Davis' pardner is Randolph — Gentle- 
man Bill, we call him fur short, he's so nice and perlite. 
He's from yer State, too, I reckon." 

" Randolphs of Boone ville," said Gentleman Bill; rising 
and extending his hand. 

Matheny, who was a mild-looking man of about fifty, with 
a hesitating manner and rather care-worn countenance, half 
concealed under a wide-brimmed, dusty black hat, instead 
of meeting half-way the extended hand of his friend's friend, 
thrust his OAvn into his pockets and gazed fixedly at young- 
Randolph. " Be ye Boone Randolph, or be ye his sperrit?" 
he asked, hoarsel}". 

" Neither, quite," said the young man, smiling, yet a lit- 
tle flushed. "I am son of Boone Randolph of Booneville, 
if you know who he was." 

Matheny turned and hurried out of the crowd, followed 
by Kentuck, who wanted to have explained this singular 
conduct of Bob's towards his friends. As there was no 
witness of their conversation, its meaning can only be 
guessed at b}- another which took place two hours later, 
after Matheny had turned in at the Traveler's Rest. It was 
late, even for him, when Kentuck started for his lodgings 
at the other end of the long, densely crowded street — 
crowded not only with buildings of wood and canvas, but 
choked up with monstrous freight wagons, and their nu- 
merous horse and mule-teams, for Avliich there was not sta- 



204 WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAR. 

ble-ioom euouj>b in all "Wilson's Bar. Stumbling along 
the uneven sidewalk, often touching with his feet some 
unhoused vagabond, Kentuck was about to mount the 
stairs which led tb his bedroom, when some one touched 
him on the shoulder, and the voice of Gentleman Bill ad- 
dressed him : 

"I beg your pardon, Kentuck; but you've boon with 
Matheny, haven't you? I want to know why he wcnildu't 
shake hands. He told you, of course ?" 

"Waal, I'm a friend of Bob's, ye know. Bill; an' he is 
might}' rough on you, sure. Better not say notliin' about 
it." 

"That wouldn't suit nie, Kentuck. I want to under- 
stand something about the matter which concerns me so 
evidently. Come, out with it, and I'll leave you to go to 
bed." 

"Waal, you heerd Tom Davis' blab this evenin'; an' you 
know that Bob's got the idee into his intelleck that the 
cuss of a sart'in man as he onct wronged is a-stickin' to 
him yit, an' never will let loose till he passes in his 
checks ?" 

" Who was the man?" 

"Boone Randolph, of Booneville," 

"My father?" 

"Yaas, yer pap. He's down powerful on your pap, 
that's sart'in. Sez he to me : ' Loh ! that's the ornary 
whelp ov the devil that cussed me. Old's I am I'd like to 
fight him, fur the sake o' the man that I knowed onct. I 
feel my young blood a-risin'; he looks so mighty like Boone 
Randolph.' But I tole him he war a fool to talk ov tightin' 
yer; ye'd whip him all ter flinders." 

" I wouldn't fight him, of course: he's too old for me. 
And then he's just married, too, isn't he ? I have no wish 
to make that young woman a widow." 

"A M'idow!" said Kentuck, laughing. "That girl's 
name is Anne Matheny; but she ain't Bob's wife, not b}' a 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAB. 205 

long sbot. ^Vhy, she's Bob's darter, as lias jnst come out 
to see her old pap." 

" Well, I like that. I am less than ever inclined to fight 
the man who owns such a daughter. I must find a way to 
make friends with him, even if I have to quarrel with him 
to do it. (Tood-night, Keutuck. Pleasant dreams to you." 

Gentleman Bill felt more than ordinarily wide-awake, 
whether it was from the novel excitement of the brief en- 
counter with Matheny or not. When Ken tuck had left 
him, he stood for some time irresolute, with no wish for 
rest, and no desire to go anywhere in particular. He looked 
up to the sky. It was murky Avith filmy fog-clouds and 
dust not yet settled to the earth . Not a star was visible in 
the whole arch of heaven. He looked down the street, and 
his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could just faintly dis- 
tinguish the outlines of the wagons that crowded it. Every 
sound Avas hushed, except the occasional movement of a 
restless animal, or the deep sighing of a sleeping one. Not 
a light was burning anj'where along the street. While gaz- 
ing aimlessly into the gloom he saw, all at once, as if 
lighted by a flash from the sky, a sudden illumination sjmng 
up, and a column of flame stand erect over the Traveler's 
Rest. 

Now, Wilson's Bar did not boast a fire company. At 
some seasons of the year, had a fire broken out, there w^ould 
have been a chance of its extinguishment, inflammable as 
were the materials of which the place was built; but just 
after the long, hot summer, when the river was all but dried 
up, and every plank in houses, fences, and sidewalks so 
much tinder, a fire that should get under headway would 
have everything its own way. Seeing the danger. Gentle- 
man Bill started doAvn the street on a run, shouting, in his 
clarion tones, that ever-thrilling cry of "Fire! fire! fire!" 
till it seemed to him he must wake the dead. But it was 
that hour of the night, or rather morning, when sleep is 
heaviest, and the watchful senses off their guard. The 



206 WnAT THEY TOLD ME AT WfLSON'S BAR. 

teamsters, who slept in their wagons, were the first to he 
aroused; but they, seeing the peril which might come to 
their teams, and destruction to their property, kept by their 
own. The inhabitants of the dwellings awoke more slowly, 
and came pouring into the street only in time to see the 
roof of the Traveler's Rest falling in, although the lower 
story was not yet consumed. 

Nobody knew much about the details of the scene that 
ensued. The current of heated air produced the usual rush 
of cold wind, which spread and fed the flames, until, in 
half an hour, all hope of saving any part of the principal 
street in the Bar w^as abandoned, and people were flying for 
safety to the outskirts of the town. 

On a little eminence, overlooking the burning buildings, 
together stood Gentleman Bill and a young woman he had 
rescued from smoke and flame just in time to save her from 
suffocation. Together they looked down upon the confla- 
gration, and together listened to the horrible medley of 
sounds proceeding from it. 

"If I could only know that my father is safe!" was the 
repeated moan of Anne Matheny, as she gazed intently 
upon the scene of distress. 

Seeing the fright and trouble in her eyes, her companion 
cunningly diverted her attention for one moment to the 
weird landscape stretching away toward the western 
mountains. It was the same scene she had beheld for the 
first time wdth such interest twelve hours before; but in 
what a different aspect! The murky heavens reflected the 
red glare of the flames upon every object for miles around, 
tinging each with a lurid gleam like nothing in nature. 
The dark neutrals of the far-off mountains, the gray -green 
of the pines, the sere colors of the parched valley, the dark 
dull-green of the oaks, garlanded with hoary moss, and the 
gay foliage of the wild grape; all came out distinctly in this 
furnace-glow, but with quite new effects. In the strong 
and strange fascination of the scene, both these young peo- 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAB. 207 

pie, so singularly situated, forgot for three- minutes tlieir 
mutual anxiety. Longer it "svould be impossible to for- 
get it. 

"Do not you tliink I might go to look for my father 
now, Mr. ?" 

" Randolph" — supplied that gentleman. 

" Oh, thank you !— Mr. Randolph?" 

" I do not see how you could, really;" and, without in- 
tending it in the least, but simply through his embarrass- 
ment, Randolph glanced hastily at her scanty dress, which 
thereby she blushingly understood to be his objection. 

" If I could get only a blanket from father's wagon ! Do 
you think it would be possible ? Would you be running a 
risk to try for a blanket, do you think, Mr. Randolph ? If 
there is any risk, please do not go ; but I am so anxious — 
so terribly anxious." 

He knew she was, and knew the reason she had for her 
api^rehensions; so, although he mistrusted the result of his 
errand, he answered simply: " Certainly; I will go, if you 
are not afraid to be left alone, 1 shall be in no danger." 

"O, thank you — thank you ! You will bring me a mes- 
sage from my father?" 

"I hope so, indeed, since you desire it so much. I 
think you had better sit down on this newspaper, and let 
me cover your shoulders with my coat." 

"No, indeed. If you are going near the fire, you will 
need it to protect you from cinders." 

Bat Randolph quickly divested himself of his upper gar- 
ment, and laid it lightly over her shivering form; then 
quietl}^ charging her to feel no alarm, and as little anxiety 
as possible, strode rapidly away toward the fire. Fifteen 
minutes afterward he returned more slowly, with a blanket, 
which Anne rose up to receive. 

" My father ? Did you see my father? " 

" I did not see him. He must have taken his horses off 
a little distance for safety, and you may not see him for 



208 WI/AT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAR. 

several hours.* Do not indulge in apj^rebensions. In the 
morning we shall find him: it is almost daj'light now." 

He pointed to a faint light along the eastern horizon; but 
her eyes Avere blinded with tears. 

" It is not like my father to leave me so long — at such a 
time, too! He Avould not care for his horses, nor for any- 
thing but me. O, can he have perished!'' 

She spoke as though the awful significance of her loneli- 
ness had just dawned ujDon her. Randolph, from whom 
the thought had never been absent from the moment he 
saw the pillar of flame shooting up over the Traveler's Rest, 
was startled by the suddenness of her anguish; and an ex- 
pression of profound grief came over his face, noticeable 
even to her inattentive eyes, and which comforted her by 
its sympathy, even in the midst of her alarm and distress. 

The day had dawned when Anne Matheny lifted her tear- 
swollen face from her knees, and looked upon the smoking 
ruins of Wilson's Bar. It was but a blackened heap of 
rubbish; yet somewhere in its midst, she felt assured, were 
l^uried the charred remains of her father. Each moment 
that he came not deepened her conviction, until at last her 
companion ceased his efforts to insjaire hope, and accepted 
her belief as his own. Then, with the inconsistency of sor- 
row, she violently repudiated the suspicion of her father's 
death, and besought him piteously to seek and bring him' 
to her side. 

It was while obeying this last command that Gentleman 
Bill encountered Kentuck, who, after the confusion of the 
fire was over, Avas, like himself, looking for Matheny. "When 
they had consulted together, the two returned to the place 
where Anne was awaiting them. 

"There is one request I have to make, Kentuck: which 
is, that you will not inform Miss Matheny of the enmity of 
her father toward my father and myself. It woi;ld onh' 
distress her. Besides, I should like to befriend her, poor 
gii'l! and I could not, if she looked upon me Avith her 
father's eves." 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAR. 209 

"No, 'taiu't no use to tell her notbiu' about tli at, svire 
enough. It's mighty curus, though, 'bout that fire: not 
another man got hurt, not a mite; and Bob Matheny dead! 
I'll be hanged if it ain't mighty curus. I hope ye won't 
hurt the gal, bein' yer the son of 3"er father." 

" Hurt her! I'd " 

Gentleman Bill did not say what he would do : but Ken- 
tuck, glancing his way, caught a perfectly comiDrehensible 
exjDression, and muttered softly to himself: 

" Waal, if that ain't the dog-gondest curusest sarcum- 
stance I ever seed. Hit, the first pop! Waal, I'm not the 
feller to come atween 'em ef tliet's tlier notion. Far play's 
my rule." 

To Bill, aloud, he said: "Reckon you'll hev' to let me 
be her uncle for awhile yet. Yer most too young a feller 
to offer to take car' of a gal like that. Bob Matheny's dar- 
ter has a right to what leetle dust pans out o' Kentuck's 
claim. Thet's mj- go." 

Just at this moment Anne, who had been watching for 
the return of her friend, seeing two figures approaching, 
uttered a cry of joy and ran forward to meet them. The 
shock of her disappointment at seeing a stranger in i:)lace 
of her father, caused her nearly to swoon away in Kentuck's 
arms. 

" Neow, don't ye, honey," he said, soothingly, in his 
kind Kentucky dialect. " Sho! don't ye take on. We's 
all got to die, sometime or 'nother. Don't mind me: I'm 
yer pap's oldest friend on this coast — hev' prospected an' 
dug an' washed up with him sence '49; and a kinder 
comrade a man never hed. In course, I consider it my 
dooty an' privilege to see that you're took car' ov. The 
Bar's purty much cleaned eout — thet's so; but I'll soon hev' 
a cabin up somewhere; an' ye can jest run my shebang- any- 
way ye like. Reckon I can find some nice woman to stay 
along with ye, fur comp'ny.'' 

This was just the kind of talk best calculated to engage 
1-1 



210 WJIAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSON'S BAR. 

the fittention of one in Anne's situation — half soothing and 
half suggestive — and by degrees her father's old friend suc- 
ceeded in arousing her to face her loss, and the prospects 
of her future. 

They told me at Wilson's Bar, only last October — it must 
have been about the anniversary of the fire — that in two or 
three months Anne had recovered her spirits and health so 
far as to essay teaching the little flock of children at the 
Bar, with flattering success; and that in two or three more 
it began to be observed that (lentleman Bill — now more 
commonly called Mr. Randolph, out of respect to Miss 
Matheny — generally happened to be in the neighborhood of 
the school-house about the hoiu- of closing, in order that he 
might walk home with the teacher. In truth, the young 
people had taken to looking and sighing after each other in 
a way that provoked remark, and augured a wedding. As 
Anne insisted on completing her term of teaching, as well 
as on taking a little time for preparation, the wedding did 
not come oiF until the first part of September. 

On this occasion — the only one of the kind Kentuck had 
ever had anything to do with — the rude, but generous-hearted 
Kentuckian made a point of displaying his hospitality on a 
scale conmiensurate with his ideas of its importance; and the 
el'de of "Wilson's Bar were invited to eat, drink, and dance 
from dusk till dawn of that memorable day. As for the 
bride, she looked as lovely as it is the right and duty of all 
brides to look — even lovelier than the most; and the groom 
was the very prince of bridegrooms — so all the maiden 
guests declared. 

On the following morning, when the young couple were 
to go away, Annie kissed and cried over Kentuck, her sec- 
ond father, in a truly gratifying fashion; and Randolph be- 
haved very gentlemanly and kindly — as, in fact, he always 
did; and Kentuck put on paternal airs, blessing his chil- 
dren in all the honeyed epithets of a true Kentuckian. 



WHAT THEY TOLD ME AT WILSOXS BAB. 211 

Alas, that the legend does not end here! If the reader 
is of 1113' mind, he will wish that it had. But if he is of that 
sanguinary sort who always insist upon seeing the grist the 
gods send to their slow-grinding mills, he will prefer to 
know the sequel. As I have already told you, it was in 
September they were married. On the morning the}- left 
Kentuck the weather was extremely hot, with queer little 
clouds hanging about the mountains. They took the road 
uj) the caiion, toward McGibeney's ranch — laughing and 
chatting, as they rode along side by side, Anne replying to 
every lark singing b}' the roadside in a voice almost as 
musical. 

Well, if it must be told, there was a cloud-burst on the 
mountains about noon that day. Not four hours after they 
had taken leave of him, Kentuck received their poor bruised 
bodies at his very threshold, brought there without the in- 
terposition of human hands. Wilson's Bar Avill long re- 
member that da}'. The fire took chiefly that which could 
be replaced; but the flood w-ashed out claims, ruined aque- 
ducts, and destroyed lives of men and brutes, carrying away 
with it the labors and hopes of years. 



212 ^^SS JORGENSEN. 



MISS JORGENSEN. 

I AM a plain, elderly, unmarried man, and I board at Mrs. 
Mason's. A great deal of what I am about to relate 
came under my own observation; and the remainder was 
confided to me from time to time by my landlad_y, •with 
whom I am upon terms of friendship and intimacy, having 
bad a home in her house for a period of seven years. 

Mrs. Mason lives in her own tenement, in a cpiiet part of 
the city; and besides myself, has usually three or four other 
boarders, generally teachers, or poor young authors — some 
person always of the class that, having few other pleasures, 
makes it a point to secure rooms with a fine view of the 
bay. AYhen Miss Jorgensen came to us, we were a ciuiet, 
studious, 3'et harmonious and happy family; so well satis- 
fied with our little community that we did not take kindly 
to the proposed addition to our circle when Mrs. Mason 
mentioned it. Neither did our landlady seem to desire anj' 
change; but she explained to us that the young person ap- 
plying had made a strong appeal; tliat her classes (she was 
a teacher of Fi*ench) were princii:)ally in our part of the 
city; and that she would be satisfied with a mere closet for 
a room. The only privilege for which she stipulated was 
the use of the common parlor twice a Aveek to receive her 
company in. 

" But I cannot agree to give up the parlor any single 
evening," Mrs. Mason replied, "because it is used by all 
the family, evexy evening. You will be entitled to the same 
privileges with the others." After some hesitation this was 
agreed to, and our new boarder was installed in the upper 
hall bed-room, which, Avhen it had received the necessary 
furniture and a sai-atoga trunk, with numerous boxes and 
baskets, would scarcely allow space enough to dress in. 



JIISS JORGENSEN. 213 

However, Mrs. Mason reported that the tenant professed 
real satisfaction with her quarters; and we all were on tip- 
toe with curiosity to see the new inmate. 

" Miss Jorgensen," said Mrs. Mason, that evening, as she 
escorted to the dinner-table a small, pale, dark-eyed young 
person, in deep mourning; and we being severally and 
separatel}' presented afterward, endeavored to place this 
little lonely scrap of humanity at ease with ourselves. But 
in this well-intentioned effort Miss Jorgensen did not seem 
to meet us half way. On the contrary, she repelled us. 
She was reserved without being diffident; mercilessly criti- 
cal, and fierily disputatious — ail of which we found out in 
less than a week. She never entered or left a room without 
somehow disturbing the mental atmosphere of it, and giv- 
ing the inmates a little shock; so that Mr. Quivey, our dra- 
matic writer, soon took to calling her the " Electrical Eel," 
substituting " E. E." when the person indicated was within 
ear-shot possibly or probably. In return, as we afterward 
discovered, Miss Jorgensen told Miss Flower, our other 
young lady boarder, that she had christened Mr. Quivey " I. 
I." — "Incurable Idiot." How the " E. E." came to her 
knowledge w^as never made plain. Before three months 
were past, she had quarreled with every one in the house 
excej)t Mrs. Mason and myself; though, to her credit be it 
said, she alwa^'s apologized for her temper when they were 
over, with a frankness that disarmed resentment. Never- 
theless, she was so frequently in a hostile attitude toward 
one or another in the family, that the mere mention of 
Miss Jorgensen's name was sure to arrest attention and ex- 
cite expectations. Thus, w'hen I only chanced to whisper 
to Mrs. Mason at breakfast one morning, " Miss Jorgensen 
kee^js late hours," every one at the table glanced our way 
inquiringly, as much as to ask, " What has the little woman 
done now?" And when she appeared at the close of the 
meal with pale face and ssvollen eyes, explaining her tardi- 
ness by saying she had a headache, no one gave her sym- 
pathizing looks except the landlady. 



214 MISS JORGENSEX. 

That kind-lieaited person coiificled to me, later in the 
day, that lier new boarder troubled and puzzled her verj' 
much. " She will sit up until one or two o'clock every 
night, writing- something or other, and that makes her late 
to breakfast. She goes out teaching every morning, and 
comes back tired and late to luncheon; and you see she is 
never in her place at dinner until the soup is removed, and 
every one at the table helped. "When I once suggested 
that she ought not to sit up so long at night, and that hei- 
classes should be arranged not to fatigue her so much, 
with other bits of friendly advice, she gave me to understand, 
very promptly-, that her ways were her own, and not to be 
interfered with by any one. And directly afterward the 
tears came into her eyes. I confess I did not understand 
her at all." 

""What about the young man who calls here twice a 
week ?" I inquired. 

" She is engaged to him, she saj's." 

" What sort of a person does he seem to be ?" 

"He looks well enough, only rather shabby, is very 
quiet, very attentive to her, and what you might call obedi- 
ent to her requirements. She often seems displeased with 
him, but w'hat she says to him at such times is unknown to 
me, for she does her scolding all in French; and he usu- 
ally then invites her out to walk, b}' way of diversion, I 
suppose." 

"Do 3'ou know that he comes every morning and carries 
her books for her? He certainly cannot be employed, or 
he would not have time for such gallantries." 

" Perhaps he is engaged on one of the morning papers, 
and so is off duty in the forenoon. I cannot think so in- 
dustrious a person as she would take up with a man both 
poor and idle. But you never know what a woman will 
do," sighed Mrs. Mason, who had known something of 
heart-troubles in her youth, and could sympathize with 
other unlucky women. "Excuse me; I must not stand 



MISS JORGENSEN. 215 

here gossiping." And the good hidy went about her house 
affairs. 

A few moments Later I was hvirrying down town to m}- 
office, when I overtook Miss Jorgensen and Mr. Hurst. As 
usual, she was leaning upon his arm, and he was carrj^iug 
her books. She was talking excitedly, in French, and I 
thought her to be crying, though her face was covered with 
a black veil. The few words I caught before she recog- 
nized me reminded me of my conversation with Mrs. 
Mason. 

" You must get something to do, Harry," she was saving. 
" You know that I work every instant of the time, yet how 
little I can save if I have to supply j^ou AA'ith money. It is 
a shame to be so idle and helpless, when there is so mucli 
to be done before " 

She perceived me and stopped short. " So," I thought, 
" this precious scamp is living off the earnings of the little 
French teacher, is he? A prett}' fellow, truly! I'll get him 
his conge if I have to make love to her myself. " "Which 
latter conceit so amused me, that I had forgotten to be in- 
dignant with Mr. Hurst before I reached my office and 
jDlunged into the business of the d-^ij. 

Biit I never made love to Miss Jorgensen. She was not 
the kind of person even a flirtish man would choose to talk 
sentiment with, and I was always far enough from being a 
gallant. So our affairs went on in just the usual way at 
Mrs. Mason's for three or four months. Miss Jorgensen 
and Mr. Quive}' let fly their arrows of satire at each other; 
Miss Flower, the assistant high-school teacher, enacted the 
amiable go-between; our "promising 3'oung artist" was 
wisely neutral; Mrs. Mason and myself were presumed to 
be old enough to be out of the reach of boarding-house 
tiffs, and preserved a prudent unconsciousness. Mr. Hurst 
continued to call twice a week in the evening, and Miss 
Jorgensen kept on giving French lessons by day, and writ- 
ing out translations for the press at night. She was grow- 



t 

216 J/7,S'.S' JORQENSEN. 

ing" veiy thin, very pale, and cried a good deal, as I had 
reason to know, for her room adjoined mine, and more than 
a few times I had listened to her sobbing, until I felt al- 
most forced to interfere; but interfered I never had yet. 

One foggy Jul}' evening, on coming home to dinner, I 
encountered Miss Jorgensen in the hall. She ajipeared to 
be just going out, a circumstance which surprised me some- 
what, on account of the hour. I however opened the door 
for her without comment, when by the fading daylight I 
perceived that her face was deathl}' j^ale, and her black eyes 
burning. She passed me witliout remark, and hurried off 
into the foggy twilight. Nor did she appear at dinner; but 
came in about eight o'clock and went directly to her own 
room. When Mrs. Mason knocked at her door to inquire 
if she was not going to take some refreshments, the only 
reply that could be elicited was, -that she had a headache, 
and could not be induced to eat or drink — spoken through 
the closed door. 

" She's been having a row with that sunfloAver of her's," 
Avas Mr. Quivey's comment, when he overheard Mrs. 
Mason's report to me, made in an undertone. Truth to tell, 
Mr. Quivey, from associating so much with theatrical peo- 
ple in the capacitj' of playwright, had come to be rather 
stagy in his style at times. "By the way, he was not on 
escort duty this morning. I saw her proceeding along 
Powell street alone, and anxiously peering up and down all 
the cross streets, evidently on the lookout, but he failed to 
put in an api^earance." 

"Which was ver}' unkind of him, if she expected that 
he would," put in Miss Flower, glancing from under her 
long lashes at the speaker. 

"That is so," returned Quivey; "for the fellow does 
nothing else, I do believe, but play lackey to Miss Jorgen- 
sen; and if that is his sole occupation, he ought to perform 
that dut}' faithfully. I do not see, for my part, how he 
pays his Avay." 



MISS JO RG EN SEN. 217 

•' PerLaj)S it pa3-s him to be a lackey," I suggested, re- 
membering what I had once overheard between them. 
Mrs. Mason gave me a cautioning" glance, w^hicli she need 
not have done, for I had no intention of making known 
Miss Jorgensen's secrets. 

" Well," said Miss Flower, as if she had been debating 
the question in her mind for some time previous, " I doubt 
if a woman can love a man who submits to her Avill as sub- 
servientl}' as Mr. Hurst seems to, to Miss Jorgensen. I 
know some ivovien could not.'' 

" By which you mean you could not," Mrs. Mason re- 
turned, smiling. '"I do not see that the case need be very 
different with men. Subservienc}' never w^on anybody's 
respect or love either. Neither does willful opposition, 
any more. Proper self-respect and a fair share of self- 
love is more sure of winning admiration, from men or 
women, than too little self-assertion or too much.'' 

"But where the self-assertion is all on one side, and the 
self-abasement all on the other — as in the case of Miss 
Jorgensen and Mr. Hurst — then how would you establish 
an equilibrium, Mrs. Mason ?" 

"It establishes itself in that case, I should s&j," clipped 
in Mr. Quive3% " Oil and water do not mix, but each 
keeps its own place perfectly, and without disturbance." 

I do not know how long this conversation might have 
gone on in this half-earnest, half-facetious style, with Miss 
Jorgensen for its object, had not something happened just 
here to bring it abruptly to a close; and that something 
was the report of a pistol over our very heads. 

" Great heaven !" ejaculated Miss Flower, losing all her 
color and self-possession together. 

" J^. E., as I live — she has shot herself !" cried Quivey, 
half doubting, half convinced. 

I caught these words as I made a rapid movement 
toward the staircase. They struck me as so undeniably 
true that I never hesitated in making an assault upon her 



218 M/SS JORGENSEN. 

door. It was locked on the inside, and I could hear noth- 
ing except a faint moaning sound within. Fearing the 
worst, I threw my whole weiglit and strength against it, 
and it flew open with a ci*ash. There laj' Miss Jorgensea 
upon the floor, in the middle of her little room, uttering 
low moaning sobs, though apparently not unconscious. I 
stooped over and lifted her in my arms to lay her upon the 
bed, and as I did so, a small pnclcet-pistol fell at my feet, 
and I discovered blood upon the carpet. 

" Yes, Miss Jorgensen had certainly shot herself, I told 
Mrs. Mason, and the rest who crowded after us into the 
little woman's room; but whether dangerously or not, I 
could not say, nor whether purposely or accidentally. 
Probably not dangerously, as she was already making signs 
to me to exclude people from the apartment. 

" You had better bring a surgeon," I said to Quivey, who 
turned away muttering, followed hy Miss Flower. 

With Mrs. Mason's assistance, I soon made out the loca- 
tion of the wound, which was in the flesh of the upper 
part of the left arm, and consequently not so alarming as 
it would be painful daring treatment. 

" Could she have meant to shoot herself through the 
heart, and failed through agitation?" whispered Mrs. Mason 
to me, aside. 

"No, no; it was an accident," murmured the victim, 
whose quick ear had caught the Avords. " I did not mean 
to shoot mj^self." 

"Poor child, I am very sorry for you," returned Mrs. 
Mason gently, whose kind heart had always leaned toward 
the little French teacher, in spite of her singular ways. 
'' It is very unfortunate; but you shall receive careful nurs- 
ing until you recover. You need not worr}' about yourself, 
but try to bear it the best j'ou can." 

"O, I cannot bear it — I )inii<t be well to-morrow. O, 
what shall I do!" moaned Miss Jorgensen. "O, that this 
should have hajipened to-uight!" And momently, after this 



MISS JORGENSEN. 219 

thought occurred to her, her restlessness seemed to increase, 
until the surgeon came and began an examination of the 
wound. 

"While this was going on, notwithstanding the sickening- 
pain, the sufferer seemed anxious onh' about the oj^inion 
to be given upon the imijortance of the wound as interfer- 
ing with her usual pursuits. 

When, in answer to a direct apjoeal, she was told that it 
must be some weeks before she could resume going out, a 
fainting iit immediately followed, Avhich gave us no little 
trouble and alarm. 

Before taking leave, the doctor accompanied me to my 
own apartment and proceeded to question me. 

" "What is the history' of the case?" said he. "Is there 
anything peculiar in the life or habits of Miss Jorgensen, to 
account for her great anxiety to get well immediately?" 

" She fears to lose her classes, I presume; and there may 
be other engagements which are unknown to us." I still 
had a great reluctance to saying what I suspected might be 
troubling Miss Jorgensen. 

" Neither of which accounts for all that I observe in her 
case," returned the doctor. " What are her connections? — - 
has she any family ties — any lover, even?" 

" I believe she told Mrs. Mason she Avas engaged to a 
young man who calls here twice a week." 

" Ah ! Do you know wliere this young man is to be found ? 
It might be best to communicate with him, in the morn- 
ing. Possibly he may be able to dispel this anxious fear of 
hers, from whatever cause it arises." 

I promised the Doctor to speak to Mi-s. Mason about it, 
and he soon after took leave, having first satisfied himself 
that the unlucky pistol was incajDable of doing further mis- 
chief, and safely hidden from Miss Jorgensen. 

Naturally, the next morning, the table-talk turned upon 
the incident of the evening previous. 

" She need not tell me that it was an accident," Mr. 



220 -^I^SS JORGENSEN. 

Quive}' Avas saying, very clecidedly. " She is just the sort 
of woman for desperate remedies; and she is tired of iiviug, 
with that vampire friend of hers draiuiuy her life-Wood!" 

I confess I felt startled by the correspondence of Qnivey's 
opinion with my own; for I had heretofore believed that my- 
self and Mrs. Mason were the only persons who suspected 
that Hurst was dependent upon Miss Jorgensen for the 
means of living. In my surprise I said: " You know that 
he does this?" 

" I know that Cray croft paid him yesterday for a long- 
translation done by Miss Jorgensen, and I do not believe he 
had an order for it, other than verbal. Cra^'croft seeing 
them so much together, paid the money, and took a re- 
ceipt." 

" Perhaps he paid the money to Mr. Hurst by her instruct- 
ions, for her own use," suggested Miss Flower. "But then 
he did not see her last evening, did he ? I hope he does 
not rob Miss Jorgensen. Such a delicate little woman has 
enough to do to look out for herself, I should think." 

"One thing is certain,'' interposed Mrs. Mason, "Miss 
Jorgensen does w'hat she does, and permits what she per- 
mits, intelligently ; and our speculations concerning her 
affairs will not produce a remedy for what we fancy Ave see 
wrong in them." "Which hint had the effect of silencing 
the discussion for that time. 

Before I left the house that morning, I had a consulta- 
tion with Mrs. Mason, who had passed the night in attend- 
ance upon Miss Jorgensen, and who had informed me that 
she had been very restless, in spite of the quieting prescrip- 
tion left by the doctor. " I wish j^ou would go up and 
speak to her," Mrs. Mason said. "Perhaps yon can do 
something for her which I could not; and I am sure she 
needs some such service." 

Thus urged, I obeyed an impulse of my own, which had 
been to do this very thing. "When I tapped softly at her 
door, she said, "Come in!" in a pained and petulant tone, 



MISS JOBGENSEN. 221 

as if any interruption was -wearisome to lier; but Avhen she 
saw who it was, her countenance assumed an eager and ani- 
mated expression, which rewarded me at once for the effort 
I was making, 

" Thank you for coming to see me," said she quickly. " I 
was almost on the point of sending for you." Pausing for 
a moment, while her eyes searched my face, she continued : 
" I am in trouble, which cannot be all explained, and 
which will force you, if you do a service for me, to take me 
verj^ much upon trust; but I will first assure you that what 
you may do for me will not involve you in any difficult}'. 
More than this I cannot now say. Will you do this service 
forme, and keep your agency in the matter secret? The 
service is slight, the importance of secrecy great." 

I expressed my willingness to do anything which would 
not compromise me with myself, and that, I told her, I did 
not fear her requiring. 

She then proceeded, with some embarrassment, to say 
that she wished a note conveyed to Mr. Hurst; upon which 
I smiled, and answered, " I had conjectured as much." 

" But you must not conjecture anything," she replied, 
with some asperity; " for you are sure to go wide of the 
truth. You think I have only to send for Mr. Hurst to 
bring him here; but you are mistaken. He cannot come, 
because he dcwe not. He is in hiding, but I cannot tell 
you why. Only do not betray him; I ask no more. You 
are not called upon to do any more — to do anything against 
him, I mean." Seeing me hesitate, she continued : "I need 
not tell you that I believe my life is in your hands. I have 
been living a long time with all my faculties upon a severe 
strain, so severe that I feel I shall go mad if the pressure 
is increased. I entreat jou not to refuse me." 

"Very well," I answered, " I will do what you require." 

" It is only to take this" — she pulled a note from beneath 
her pillow, addressed to "Mr. Harry Hurst," and handed 
it to me — " to the address, which you will have no dillficulty 



222 J^^-'5"''>' JORGENSEN. 

in finding-, tliougli I am sorry to have to send you ou a walk 
so out of your way. And please take this also' — banding 
me a roll of coin, marked ^100. No answer is expected. 
Of course, you will not give these things to any one but Mr. 
Hurst. That is all." And she sunk back wearily upon her 
j)illow, with closed eyes, as if she had no further interest 
in the affair. 

I know as well as if she had told me that this note w^as a 
w^arning to fl}', and this money the means to make flight 
good. I had promised to deliver them on her simple en- 
treaty and assurance that I should not dishonor myself. 
But might I not wrong society? Might not she be herself 
deceived about Hurst? The assertion of Quivey that he 
had collected mone}^ from her emi)loyers the day before 
occurred to me. Did she know it or not? I questioned, 
while regarding the thin, pale, weary face on the pillow be- 
fore me. "While I hesitated she opened her eyes with a Avon- 
dering, impatient gaze. 

" Do jou repent !" she asked. 

" I deliberate, rather," I replied. "I chanced to learn 
yesterday, that Mr. Hurst had drawn money from Craycroft 
& Co., and was thinking that if you knew it, you might not 
wish to send this also." 

For an instant her black eyes blazed Avith anger, but 
whether at me or at Mr. Hurst I could not tell, and she 
seemed to hesitate, as I had done. 

"Yes, take it," she said, with hopeless sadness in her tone, 
"He may need it; and for myself, what does it matter 
now ?" 

" I shall do as a'ou bid me," I replied, " but it is under 
protest; for it is my impi'ession that you are doing yourself 
an injury, and Mr. Hurst no good." 

" You don't understand," she returned, sharply. "Now 
go, please." 

" Very well; I am gone. But I promise you that if you 
exact services of me, I shall insist on your taking care of 



MISS JORGENSEN. 223 

your health, by way of retuini. You are in a fever at this 
moment, Avhich I warn you will be serious if not checked. 
Here comes the doctor. Good-morning." 

I pass over the trifling incidents of my visit to the resi- 
dence of Mr. Hurst. Suffice to say that Mr. Hurst had de- 
parted to i^arts unknown, and that I had to carry about all 
day Miss Jorgensen's letter and money. On I'eturning 
home to dinner that afternoon, I found a stranger occupying 
Miss Jorgensen's place at table. He was a shrewd-looking 
man of about forty years, talkative, versatile, and what you 
might call "jolly." Nothing escaped his observation; no- 
thing was uttered that he did not hear, often replying most 
unexpectedly to what was not intended for him — a practice 
that would have been annoying but for a certain tact and 
good humor which disarmed criticism. The whole famil}-, 
while admitting that our new day-boarder was not exactly 
congenial, confessed to liking his amusing talk immensely. 

" He quite brightens us up; don't you think so, Mr. 
Quivey ? " was Miss Flower's method of indorsing him. 

" He does very well just now," replied Quivey, " though 
I'd lots rather see E. E. back in that place. When one 
gets used to pickles or pepper, one wants pickles or pep- 
per; honej^ palls on the appetite." 

"I thought you had almost too much pepper sometimes," 
said Miss Flower, remembering the " I. I." 

" It's a healthful stimulant," returned Quivey, ignoring 
the covert reminder. 

" But not alwa3's an agreeable one." 

I suspected that Miss Flower, who had an intense ad- 
miration for dramatic talent, entertained her own reasons 
for jogging Mr. Quivey 's memory; and being willing to 
give her every opportunity to promote her own views, I 
took this occasion to make my report to Miss Jorgensen. 
As might have been expected, she had been feverishly an- 
ticipating my visit. I had no sooner entered the room than 
she uttered her brief interrogation: 



221 ^l^/-S''V JORGENSEN. 

"Well?" 

I laid the note and the money upon the bed. " Yon see 
how it is ? " I said. 

" He is gone?" 

"Yes." 

"I am so veiy glad!" she said, with emjshasis, while 
something like a smile lighted up her countenance. "This 
gives me a respite, at least. If he is prudent" — she checked 
herself, and giving me a grateful glance, exclaimed, " I am 
.so much obliged to j'ou." 

"Nobody could be more welcome, I am sure, to so slight 
a service. I shall hope now to see j^ou getting well." 

" O, yes," she answered, " I must get well; there is so 
much to do. But my classes and my writing must be 
dropped for a while, I presume, unless the doctor will let 
me take in some of my scholars, for, of course, I cannot go 
out." 

" Your arm must begin to heal before you can think of 
teaching, ever so little. I have an idea. Miss Jorgensen, 
from what you have said of yourself, that this necessity for 
repose, which is forced upon you, will prove to be an ex- 
cellent thing. Certainl}^ you were wearing out very fast 
Avith your incessant labor." 

"Perhaps so — I mean, perhaps inforced rest will not be 
bad for me;- but, O, there is such. need to Avork! I can so 
poorly aftbrd to be idle. " 

" What you say relieves my mind of a suspicion, which - 
at first I harbored, that the firing of that mischievous pistol 
was not wholly accidental. I now see you wish to live and 
work. But why had you such a weapon about you? Are 
you accustomed to fire-arms?" 

" The mischief this one did me shows that I am not; and 
my having it about me came from a fear I had of its doing 
worse mischief in the hands of Mr. Hurst." 

" Are affairs so desperate with him?" 

"Please don't question me. I cannot answer you satis- 



MISS JORQENSEN. 225 

factorily. Mr. Hurst is in trouble, and the least that is 
said or known about him is the best. And yet you wonder, 
no doubt, that I should interest myself about a man who is 
compelled to act the part of a culprit. Well, I cannot tell 
you why at present; and it would be a great relief to know 
that you thought nothing more about it." This last she 
uttered rather petulantl}', which warned me that this con- 
versation was doing her no good. 

" Believe, then," I said, " that I have no interest in your 
affairs, except the wish to promote your welfare. And I 
think I may venture to aflfirm that everybody in the house 
is equally at your service when you wish to command him 
or her." 

" Thank you all; but I do not deserve your kindness; I 
have been so ill-tempered. The truth is I cannot afford to 
have friends; friends pry into one's affairs so mercilessly. 
Mrs. Mason tells me there is a new boarder," she said, sud- 
denly changing the subject. 

I assented, and gave what I intended to be an amusing- 
account of the new-comers's conversation and manners. 

"Was there anything said about me at dinner?'' she 
asked, with a painful consciousness of the opinion I might 
have of such a question. 

"I do not .think there was. We were all so taken up 
wdth the latest acquisition that we forgot you for the time." 

" May I ask this favor of you, to keep the conversation 
away from me as much as possible? I am morbidly sen- 
sitive, I presume," she said, with a poor attempt at a smile, 
" and I cannot keej) from fancying, while I lie here, what 
you are saying about me in the dining-room or parlor." 

Of course, I hastened to disavow any disposition on the 
part of the family to make her a subject of conversation, 
and even promised to discountenance any reference to her 
whatever, if thereby she would be made more comfortable; 
after which I bade her good-night, having received the as- 

15 



226 i^!''^S JORGENSEN. 

siiranee that my visit had relieved her mind of several tor- 
turing apprehensions. 

The more I saw and thought of Miss Jorgensen, the more 
she interested and puzzled me. I should have inclined to 
the opinion that she was a little disturbed at times in her 
intellect, had it not been that there was apparent so much 
" method in her madness;" this reflection always bringing 
me back at last to the conclusion that her peculiarities 
could all be accounted for upon the hypothesis she herself 
presented; too much Avork and some great anxiety. The 
spectacle of this human mile lighting the battle of life, not 
only for herself but for the strong man who should have 
been her protector, worked so upon my imagination and 
my sympathy that I foUnd it diflicult to keep the little wo- 
man out of my thoughts. 

I kept my word to her, discountenancing, as far as I 
could, the discussion of her affairs, and in this effort Mrs. 
Mason co-operated with me; but it was practically impossi- 
ble to prevent the inquiries and remarks of tliose of the 
family who were not so well informed concerning her as we 
were. The new boarder, also, with that quick apprehen- 
sion he had of every subject, had caught enough to become 
interested in the patient up-stairs, and daily made some in 
quiries concerning her condition, and, as it appeared to me 
— grown a little morbid, like Miss Joi'gensen — was peculiarly 
adroit in extracting information. 

Three weeks slipped away, and Miss Jorgensen had 
passed the most jiainful period of suppuration and healing 
in her arm, and had promised to come down-stairs next day 
to dine with the family. Mrs. Mason had just communi- 
cated the news to us in her cheeriest tones, as if each in- 
dividual was interested in it, and was proceeding to turn 
out our coffee, when a servant brought in the letters for the 
house and laid them beside the tray, directly under the eye 
of the new boarder, who sat on the landlady's left. 

" 'Miss Jorgensen,"' said he, reading the address of the 



MISS JORGENSEN. 227 

topmost one. "A veiy peculiar handwriting." Then tak- 
ing up the letter, as if to further examine the writing, I ob- 
served that he was studying the postmark as well, which, 
being offended at his unmannerly curiosity, I sincerely 
hoped was illegible. But that it was only too fatally plain 
will soon appear. 

With an air of hauteAir I seldom assumed, I recalled the 
servant, and ordered the letter to be taken at once to Miss 
Jorgenseu. Before leaving the house I was informed that 
Miss Jorgensen wished to speak to me. 

" Mr. Hurst has done a most imprudent thing!" she ex- 
claimed, the moment I was inside the door. " I ought to 
have published a ' personal,' or done something to let him 
know I could not go to the post-office, and to account for 
his not hearing from me." 

" He has returned to the city?" 

"Yes!" She fairly ground her teeth with rage at this 
" stupidity," as she termed it. " He always does the very 
thing he ought never to have done, and leaves undone the 
things most important to do. Of course he cannot come 
here, and I can not go to him without incurring the 
greatest risk. I reall}^ do not know what to do next." 

Tears were now coursing down her pale cheeks — tears, it 
seemed, as much of auger as-of sorrow. 

"Let him take care of himself," I said, rather hotly. 
" It is not your province to care for him as you do." 

She gave me an indescribable look. "What can you, 
what can any one know about it? He ma}' want money; 
how can he take care of himself in such circumstances 
without money ? I sent for you to contrive some j)lau by 
which he can be communicated with. Do tell me at once 
what to do." 

" How can I tell you, when, as you say, I do not know 
what is required. You wish to see him, I presume ?" 

" How can I — O, I dislike so much to ask this of you — 
but ivill you take a message to him ?" She asked this des- 
perately, half expecting me to decline, as decline I did. 



228 -"^^^SS JORGENSEN. 

" Miss Jorgeiiseii, you are now able to ride. Shall I 
send a carriage for j'ou ?" 

" There may bethose on the lookout who would instantly' 
suspect my purpose in going out in that way. On the con- 
trary, nobodj' would suspect yon." 

" Still, I might be ol)served, which would not be pleas- 
ant, I can imagine, from what you leave me to surmise. 
No, Miss Jorgensen, much as I should like to serve j^ou 
personally, you must excuse me from connecting myself in 
any way with Mr. Hurst; and if I might be allowed to offer 
advice, I should say that, in justice to yourself, yon ought 
to cut loose from him at once," 

Miss Jorgensen covered her face with one little emaciated 
hand, and sat silent a few seconds. " Send me the car- 
riage," she said, " and I Avill go." 

" Yoii forgive me? " 

"You have been very good," she said. "I ought not 
have required more of you. I will go at once; the sooner 
the better." 

When I had reached the head of the stairs, I turned back 
again to her door. 

" Once more let me counsel you to free yourself from all 
connection w^ith Mr. Hurst. AVhy should you ruin your 
chances of happiness for one so undeserving, as I must 
think he is? Keep away from him; let him shift for him- 
self." 

"You dont know what you are talking about,' she re- 
plied, with a touch of the old fierceness. "I have no 
chances of happiness to lose. Please go." 

On my way down to the office I ordered a carriage. 

What happened afterward I learned from Mrs. Mason 
and the evening papers. Miss Jorgensen, dressed in deep 
black, with her face veiled, entered the carriage, directing 
the driver to take her to the houses of some of her ijuj^ils. 
At the corner of the street, a gentleman, who proved to be 
our day-boarder, got upon the box with the driver, and re- 



JflSS JORGENSEN. 229 

mained there while Miss Jorgeuseu made her calls. Find- 
ing him constantly there, and becoming suspicious, she 
ordered 'the carriage home, and gave directions to have it 
return an hour later to take her down town for some shop- 
ping. At the time set,, the carriage was in attendance, and 
conveyed her to one of the principal stores in the city. 
After re-entei'ing the carriage, and giving her directions, 
our day-boarder once more mounted the box, though unob- 
served by her, and was convej'ed with herself to the hiding- 
place of Mr. Hurst, contriving, by getting down before the 
door was o2:)ened, to elude her observation. 

Another carriage, containing officers of the police, was 
following in the wake of this one, and drew up when Miss 
Jorgensen had entered the house where Hurst was con- 
cealed. After waiting long enough to make it certain that 
the person sought was within, the officers entered to search 
and capture. 

At the moment they entered Hurst's apartment, he was 
saying, with much emotion, "If I can only reach China in 
safety, a way will be opened for me " 

" Hush!" cried Miss Jorgensen, seeing the door opened, 
and by w'hom. 

"All is over!" exclaimed Hurst. " I will never be taken 
to prison!" And, drawing a revolver, he deliberately shot 
himself through the head. 

Miss Jorgensen was brought back to Mrs. Mason's in a 
fainting condition, and was ill for weeks afterward. That 
same evening our day-boarder called, and while settling his 
board with Mrs. Mason, acknowledged that he belonged 
to the detective police, and had for months been " working 
up " the case of a bank-robber and forger who had escaped 
from one of the eastern cities, and been lost to observation 
for a year and a half. 

And we further learned in the same way, and ultimately 
from the lady herself, that Miss Jorgensen was a myth, and 
that the little French teacher was Madame , who had 



230 ^V/AS- JORGENSEN. 

suffered, and toiled, and risked everything for her un- 
Avortliv husband, and who deserved rather to he congratu- 
hited than condoled with upon his loss. 

It is now a year since all this happened, and it is the com- 
mon gossip of our hoarding-house that Mr. Quive}- is de- 
voted to the little dark-eyed widow; and although Miss 
Flower still refers to " E. E." and "I. I.," nobody seems 
to be in the least disturbed by the allusion. "When I say 
to Quive}', "Make haste slowly, m}' dear fellow;" he re- 
tiu-ns: "Never fear, my friend; I shall know when the 
time conies to speak." 



SAM BICE\S ROMANCE. 231 



SAM RICE'S ROMAN'CE. 

THE coach of Wells, Fargo & Co. stood before the 
door of Piney-woods Station, and Sam Rice, the 
driver, was drawing on his lemon-colored gloves with an 
air, for Sam was the pink of stage-drivers, from his high 
white bat to his faultless French boots. Sad will it be 
when his profession shall have been altogether superseded; 
and the coach-and-six, with its gracious and graceful 
"whip," shall have been suj^planted, on all the i^riucipal 
lines of travel, by the iron-horse with its grimy "driver" 
and train of thunderiug carriages. 

The passengers had taken their seats — ^the one lady on 
the box— aud Sam Eice stood, chronometer held daintily 
between thumb and finger, waiting for the second hand to 
come round the quarter of a minute, while the grooms 
slipped the last strap of the harness into its buckle. At 
the expiration of the quarter of a minute, as Sam stuck an 
unlighted cigar between his lips and took hold of the box 
to pull himself up to his seat, the good-natured landlady 
of Piney-woods Station called out, with some officiousuess: 

" Mr. Eice, don't you want a match?" 

"That's just what I've been looking for these ten years," 
responded Sam; and at that instant his eyes were on a level 
with the ladj-'s on the box, so that he could not help seeing 
the roguish glint of them, which so far disconcerted the 
usually self-possessed j^rofessor of the whip tliat he heard 
not the landlady's laugh, but gathered up the reins in such 
a hasty and careless manner as to cause Demon, the nigh- 
leader, to go off with a bound that nearly threw the owaier 
of the eyes out of her place. The little flurry gave oppor- 
tunity for Mrs. Dolly Page — that was the lady's name — to 
drop her veil over her face, and for Sam Eice to show his 



232 S^'^t RICE'S ROMANCE. 

yenteel lianilling of the ribbons, and conquer the unac- 
countable disturbance of bis pulses. 

Sam had looked at the way-bill, not ten minutes before, 
to ascertain the name of the prett}- black-e3'ed woman seated 
at his left hand; and the consciousness of so great a cu- 
riosity grutitiod, may have augmented his unaccustomed 
embarrassment. Certain it is, Sam Rice had driven six 
horses, on a ticlclish mountain road, for four j-ears, with- 
out missing a trip; and had more than once encountered 
the "road-agents," without ever yet delivering them an ex- 
press box; had had old and young ladies, plain and beautiful 
ones, to sit beside him, hundreds of times: yet this was the 
first time he had consulted the way-bill, on his awn account, 
to find a lady's name. This one time, too, it had a Mm. 
before it, whicli prefix gave him a pang he Avas very unwill- 
ing to own. On the other hand, Mrs. D0II3' Page was clad 
in extremely deep black. Could she be in mourning for 
Mr. Page? If Demon had an unusual number of starting 
fits that afternoon, his driver was not altogether guiltless 
in the matter; for what horse, so sensitive as he, would not 
have felt the magnetism of something wrong behind him ? 

But as the mocking eyes kept hidden behind a veil, and 
the rich, musical voice uttered not a woi'd through a whole 
half-hour, which seemed an age to Sam, he finally recovered 
himself so far as to say he believed he would not smoke, 
after all; and thereujiou returned the cigar, still uulighted, 
to his pocket. 

" I hope you do not dejiriA-e yourself of a luxury on my 
account," murmured the soft voice. 

" I guess this dust and sunshine is enough for a lady to 
stand, without my smokin' in her face," returned Sam, 
politely, and glancing at the veil. 

"Still, I beg you will smoke, if you are accustomed," 
persisted the cooing voice behind it. But Sam, to his 
praise be it spoken, refused to add anytliing to the discom- 
forts of a summer day's ride across the mountains. His 



SAM RICE'S ROMANCE. 233 

cljivalry had its reward; for the lady tlius favored, feeling 
coiistraiued to make some return for sucli consideration, 
began to talk, in a vein that delighted her auditor, about 
horses — their points and their traits — and, lastly, about 
their drivers. 

"I have always fancied," said Mrs. Dolly Page, "that if 
I were a man I should take to stage-driving as a profession. 
It seems to me a free and manly calling, one that develops 
some of the best qualities of a man. Of course, it has its 
drawbacks. One cannot always choose one's society on a 
stage, and there are temptations to bad habits. Besides, 
there are storms, and upsets, and all that -sort of thing. 
I've often thought," continued Mrs. Dolly, "that we do 
not consider enough the hardships of drivers, nor what we 
owe them. You've read that poem — the Post-boy's Song: 

" ' Like a shuttle thrown l)y the hand of Fate, 
Foiwai'd and back I go.' 

"Well, it is just so. The}- do bring us our letters, full of 
good and ill news, lieljiing to weave the web of Fate for 
us; yet not to blame for what tidings they bring, and al- 
ways faithfiil to their duties, in storm or shine." 

" I shall like my profession better after what you have 
said of it," answered Sam, giving his whip a curl to make 
it touch the off-leader's right ear. "I've done my duty 
mostly, and not complained of the hardships, though once 
or twice I've been too beat out to get off the box at the end 
of my drive; but that was in a long sj^ell of bad weather, 
when the roads was just awful, and the rain as cold as 
snow." 

"Would you mind letting me hold the lines awhile?" 
asked the cooing voice, at last. " I've driven a six-in-hand 
before." 

Though decidedly startled, and averse to trusting his 
team to such a pair of hands, Sam was compelled, by the 
psychic force of the little woman, to yield up the reins. It 



234 SAM BICE'S nOMANCE. 

was witli fear nnd troiuljling tliat lie watched liev handling 
of thein for the first niile; but, as she really seemed to 
know what she was about, his confidence iucreased, and he 
watched her with admiration. Her veil was now up, her 
eyes Avere sparkling, and cheeks glowing. She did not 
speak often, but, when she did, it was always something 
piquant and graceful that she uttered. At last, just as the 
station was in sight, she j'ielded up the lines, Avith a deep- 
draAvu sigh of satisfaction, apologizing for it by saying that 
her hands, not being used to it, were tired. "I'm not 
sure," she added, " but I shall take to the box, at last, as a 
steady thing.'.' 

"If you do," resj^onded Sam, gallantly, "I hope you 
will drive on my line." 

"Thanks. I shall ask you for a reference, when I appl}' 
for the situation." 

There was then a halt, a supply of fresh, horses, and a 
prompt, lively start. But the afternoon was intensely hot, 
and the team soon sobered down. Mrs. Page did not offer 
again to take the lines. She was overwarm and weary, per- 
haps, quiet and a little sad , at any rate. Mr. Rice was quiet, 
too, and thoughtful. The passengers inside were asleej)- 
The coach rattled along at a steady pace, with the dust so 
deep under the wheels as to still their rumble. At inter- 
vals, a freight-wagon was passed, drawn to one side, at a 
" turn-out," or a riibbit skipped across the road, or a soli- 
tary horseman suggested alternately a "road-agent," or 
one of James's heroes. Grand views presented themselves 
of wooded cliffs and wild ravines. Tall pines threw 
lengthening shadows across the open spaces on the mount- 
ain-sides. And so the afternoon wore away; and, Avhen 
the sun was setting, the passengers alighted for their 
sui:>per at the principal hotel of Lucky-dog — a mining- 
camp, pretty well up in the Sierras. 

" AVe both stoj) here," said Sam, as he helped the lady 
down from her high position; letting her know by this re- 
mark that her destination Avas known to him. 



SA3I EWE'S ROMANCE. 235 

" I'm rather glad of that," she answered, frankl}', with a 
little smile; and, considering all that had transpired on 
that long drive, Sam was certainly pai'donable if he felt al- 
most sure that her reason for being glad was identical with 
his own. 

Lucky- dog was one of those shambling, new camps, where 
one street serves for a string on which two or three dozen 
ill-assorted tenements are strung, every fifth one being a 
jilace intended for the relief of the universal American 
thirst, though the liquids dispensed at these beneficent in- 
stitutions were observed rather to jDrovoke than to abate the 
dryness of their patrons. Eating-houses were even more 
frequent than those which dispensed moisture to parched 
throats; so that, taking a cursory view of the windows 
fronting on the street, the impression was inevitably con- 
veyed of the expected rush of famished armies, whose wants 
this charitable community were only too willing to supply for 
a sufiicient consideration. The houses that were not eating 
and drinking-houses were hotels, if we except occasional 
grocery and general merchandise establishments. Into 
Avhat out-of-the-way corners the inhabitants were stoAved, it 
was imj)ossible to conjecture, until it w'as discovered that 
the men lived at the places already inventoried, and that 
women abode not at all in Luck^'-dog — or if there were an}^ 
not more than a half a dozen of them, and they lived in un- 
accustomed places. 

The advent of Mrs. Page at the Silver Brick Hotel nat- 
urally made a sensation. As assemblage of not less than 
fifty gentlemen of leisure crowded about the entrance, each 
more intent than the other on getting a look at the arrivals, 
and especially at this one arrival — whose age, looks, name, 
business, and intentions in coming to Luck^'-dog, were dis- 
cussed with great freedom. Sam Rice was elosel}^ ques- 
tioned, but proved reticent and non-committal. The land- 
lord was besieged with inc^uiries — the landlady, too — and 
all without anybody being made much the wiser. There 



236 'S'^lJ/ lilCETS ROMANCE. 

was the waybill, and there was the h^dy herself; \)ui that 
and that together, and make what you coukl of it. 

Mrs. Doll}' Page did not seem discomposed iu the least 
by the evident interest she inspired. With her black curls 
smoothly brushed, her black robes immaculatel}' neat, witli 
a prett}' color in her round cheeks, and a quietly absorbed 
expression in her whole bearing, she endured the concen- 
trated gaze of fifty pairs of eyes during the whole of dinner, 
without so much as one awkward movement, or the drop- 
ping of a fork or teaspoon. Ho it was plain that the ciirious 
would be compelled to aAvait Mrs. Page's own time for de- 
velopments. 

But developments did not seem likely to come over- 
whelmingly. Mrs. Page made a fast friend of the landlady 
of the Silver Brick, by means of little household arts pecul- 
iarly her own, and, before a fortnight was gone, had be- 
come as indispensable to all the boarders as she was to Mrs. 
Shaughnessy herself. If she had a history, she kept it 
carefully from curious ears. Mrs. Shaughness}^ was evi- 
dently satisfied, and quite challenged criticism of her favor- 
ite. Indeed, there was nothing to criticise. It was gener- 
ally understood that she was a Avidow, who had to get 
on iu the world as best she could, and thus the public 
sympathy was secured, and an embargo laid upon gos- 
sij). To be sure, there were certain men in Lucky-dog, 
of a class which has its representatives everywhere, wdio 
regarded all unappropriated women, esi^ecially pretty 
women, \exj much as the hunter regards game, and the 
more difficult the approach, the more exciting the chase. 
But these moral Nimrods had not half the chance with self- 
possessed Mrs. Dolly Page that they would have had with 
a different style of woman. The grosser sort got a sudden 
conge; and with the more refined sportsmen she coquetted 
just enough to show them that two could play at a game of 
" make-believe," and then sent them ofi" with a lofty scorn 
edifying to behold — to the mingled admiration and amuse- 
ment of Mrs. Shaughnessy. 



SAM BICE'S ROMANCE. 237 

The only affair which seenied to have a kernel of serious- 
ness in it, was that of Mr. Samuel Rice. Regularly, when 
the stage was in, on Sam's night, he paid his respects to 
Mrs. Page. And Mrs. Page always received him with a 
graceful friendliness, asking after the horses, and even 
sometimes going so far as to accompany him to their sta- 
bles. On these occasions she never failed to carry several 
lumps of sugar in her pocket, which she fed to the hand- 
some brutes off her own pink palm, until there was not one 
of them she could not handle at her will. 

Thus j)assed many weeks, until summer was drawing to a 
close. Two or three times she had gone down to Piney- 
woods Station and back, on Sam's coach, and always sat on 
the box, and drove a part of the way, but never where her 
driving would excite remark. It is superfluous to state, 
that on these occasions there was a happy heart beneath 
Sam's linen-duster, or that the bantering remarks of his 
brother-drivers were borne with smiling equanimit}^ not to 
say pride; for Sam was well aware that Mrs. Dolly Page's 
brunette beauty, and his blonde-bearded st^'le, together fur- 
nished a not unpleasing tableau of personal charms. Be- 
sides, Sam's motto was, " Let those laugh who win;" and 
he seemed to himself to be on the road to heights of happi- 
ness beyond the ken of ordinary- mortals — especialW ordi- 
nary stage-drivers. 

" I don't calkelate to drive stage more than a year or two 
longer," Sam said to Mrs. Page, confidentially, on the re- 
turn from their last trip together to Pine^'-woods Station. 
" I've got a little place down in Amador, and an interest 
in the Nip-and-tuck gold-mine, besides a few hundreds in 
bank. I've a notion to settle down some day, in a cottage 
with vines over the porch, with a little woman to tend the 
flowers in the front-garden." 

As if Sam's heightened color and shining eyes had not 
sufficiently pointed this confession of his desires, it chanced 
that at this moment the eves of both were attracted to a 



238 •'^'^■IJ^ RICKS noMAXCE. 

wiiy-side picture: <i cottage, a flowcr-hovtleved walk, a fair 
Youiir;- woman standing at the gate, with a crowing babe in 
licr arms lifting its little white hands to the sun-hrowned 
face of a stalwart young farmer who was smiling proudly on 
the two. At this sudden apparition of his inmost thoughts, 
Sam's heart gave a great bound, and there was a simultane- 
ous ringing in his ears. His first instinctive act was to 
craclc his whip so fiercely as to set the leaders off prancing; 
and when, by this diversion, he had partly recovered self- 
possession to glance at the face of his companion, a new 
embarrassment seized him when he discovered two little 
rivers of tears running over tlie crimsoned cheeks. But a 
coach-box is not a convenient place for sentiment to dis- 
play' itself; and, though the temptation was great to inquire 
into the cause of the tears, with a view of offering consola- 
tion, Sam prudently looked the other way, and maintained 
silence. The reader, however, knows that those tears sank 
into the beholder's soul, and caused to germinate countless 
tender thoughts and emotions, which were, on some future 
occasion, to be laid upon the alter of his devotion to Mrs. 
Dolly Page. And none the less, that, in a few minutes, 
the eyes which shed them resumed their roguish bright- 
ness, and the lady was totally unconscious of having 
heard, seen, or felt an}' embarrassment. Sentiment be- 
tween them was successfully tabooed, so far as utterance 
w^as concerned, for that time. And so Sam found, some- 
what to his disappointment, it continued to fall out, that 
whenever he got upon delicate ground, the lady was off 
like a humming-bird, darting hither and yon, so that it was 
impossible to put a finger ujDon her, or get so much as a 
look at her brilliant and restless wihgs. But nobody ever 
tired of trj'ing to find a humming-bird at rest; and so Sam 
never gave up looking for the opportune moment of speak- 
ing his mind. 

Meanwhile, Lucky-dog Camp was having a fresh sensa- 
tion. An organized band of gamblers, robbers, and " road- 



SAM RICE'S ROMANCE. 239 

ageuts" hail made a swoop upon its j)i'opertT, of various 
kinds, and had succeeded in making off with it. The very 
night after the ride just mentioned, the best horses in Sam 
Rice's team were stolen, making it necessary to substitute 
what Sam called " a pa'r of- ornery cayuses." To put the 
climax to his misfortunes, the "road-agents" attacked him 
next morning, when, the " orney cayuses" becoming un- 
manageable, Sam was forced to surrender the treasure-box, 
and the passengers their bullion. The excitement in Lucky- 
dog was intense. A vigilance committee, seci'etly organized, 
lay in waiting for the offenders, and, after a week or two, 
made a capture of a well-known sporting-man, whose pres- 
ence in camp had for some time been regarded with sus- 
picion. Short shrift was afforded him. That same after- 
noon his gentlemanly person swung dangling from a 
gnarled pine-tree limb, and his frightened soul had fled 
into outer darkness. 

"When this event became known to Mrs. Dolly Page, she 
turned ghostly white, and then fainted dead away. Mrs. 
Shaughnessy was very much concerned for her friend; be- 
rating in round terms, the brutishness of people who could 
talk of such things before a tender-hearted lady like that. 
To Mr. Rice, particularly, she expatiated upon the coarse- 
ness of certain. j)eople, and the refined sensitiveness of 
others; and Sam was much inclined to agree with her, so 
far as her remarks applied to her friend, who was not yet 
recovered sufficiently to be visible. Indeed, Mrs Page was 
not visible for so man}' days, that Sam's soul began to long 
for her with a mighty longing. At length, she made her 
appearance, considerably paler and thinner than Avas her 
wont; but doubly interesting and lovely to the eyes of so 
partial an observer as Sam, who would willingly have 
sheltered her weakness in his strong, manly arms. Sam, 
naturally enough, would never have hinted at the event 
w^hich had so distressed her; but she relieved him of all 
embarrassment on that subject, by saying to him almost at 
once: 



240 SAM RICE'S ROMANCE. 

"Mr. Rice, I am told tliey havo not buried the man tbey 
hung, so shockingly, the other day. They certainly Avill 
not leave him tliere?" she added, with a shudder. 

"I don't know — I suppose," stammered Sam, " it is their 
way, with them fellows." 

" But you will not allow it? You cannot allow it! " — ex- 
citedly. 

" I couldn't prevent them," said Sam, quite humbly. 

" Ml'. Rice," and her voice was at once a command and 
an entreaty, " you ca>i and must prevent it. You are not 
afraid ? I will go with you — this very night — and will help 
you. Don't say you will not; for I cannot sleep until it is 
done. I have not slept for a week." 

She looked so white and so wild, as she uttered this con- 
fession, that Sam would have been the wretch he was not, 
to refuse her. So he said: 

"Don't you fret. I'll hwrj him, if it troubles you so. 
But you needn't go along. You couldn't; it's too far, and 
you're too weak," — seeing how she trembled. 

"lam not weak — only nervous. I prefer to go along. 
But we must be secret, I suppose ? Oh! " — with a start that 
was indeed " nervous." 

" Y^es. Ave must be secret," said Sam; and he looked as 
if he did not half like the business, but would not refuse. 

"You are a good man, Mr. Rice, and I thank you." And 
with that, Mrs. Dolly Page caught up one of his hands, and 
kissing it hastily, began to cr^', as she walked quickly away. 

"Don't cry, and don't go until I have promised to do 
whatever you ask, if it will make you well again," Sam 
said, following her to the door. 

" Then call for me to take a walk with you to-night. The 
moon is full, but no one will observe us. They would not 
think of our going tJiere," — with another shudder — and she 
slipped awa}' from his detaining hand. 

That evening Mr. Samuel Rice and Mrs. Page took a walk 
by moonlight. Laughing gossips commented on it after 



SA3I BICE'S ROMANCE. 241 

their fasbion; and disagreeable gossips remarked that they 
came home very late, after their fashion. But nobody, they 
believed, saw where tliey went, or what they did. Yet 
those two came from performing an act of Christian charity, 
each with a sense of guilt and unworthiness very irritating 
to endure, albeit from very different causes. One, because 
an unwelcome suspicion had thrust itself into his mind; 
and the other 

The ground of Sam's suspicion was a photograph, which, 
in handling the gamblers body somewhat awkwardly, by 
reason of its weight— Mrs. Page had found, at the last, she 
could not render any assistance — had slipped from some 
receptacle in its clothing. A hasty glance, under the full 
light of the moon, had show^n him the features of the lady 
Avho sat twelve j)aces awaj', with her hands over her face. 
It is not always those that sin who suffer most from the 
consciousness of sin; and Sam, perhaps, with that hint of 
possible — nay, almost certain — wickedness in his breast- 
pocket, was more burdened by the weight of it than many 
a criminal about to suffer all the terrors of the law; for the 
woman that he loved stood accused, if not convicted, before 
his conscience and her own, and he could not condemn, be- 
cause his heart refused to judge her. 

When the two stood together under the light of the lamp 
in the deserted parlor of the Silver Brick Hotel, the long- 
silence which, by her quick perceptions, had been recog- 
nized as accusing her, upon what evidence she did not yet 
know, was at length broken b}' Sam's voice, husk}- with 
agitation. 

" Mrs. Page," he said, assuming an unconscious dignity 
of mien and sternness of countenance, " I shall ask you 
some questions, sometime, which you may not think quite 
polite. And you must answer me: you understand. I'm 
bound to know the truth about this man." 

"About this man!' Then he suspected her of connec- 
tion with the wretched criminal whose body had only just 
16 



242 '^AM BICES ROMANCE. 

now hfon hidden from nioclcing eyes? How much did he 
suspect? how much did he Icnoiv? Her pale face and 
frightened ej'es seemed to ask these questions of him; but 
not a sound escaped her lips. The imploring look, so 
strange upon her usually bright face, touched all that was 
tender in Sam's romantic nature. In another moment he 
would have recalled his demand, and trusted her infinitely; 
but in that critical moment she fainted quite away, to his 
mingled sorrow and alarm; and Mrs. Hhaughnessy being 
summoned, Sam received a wordy reprimand for having no 
more sense than to keep a sick woman up half of the night; 
smarting under which undeserved censure, he retired, to 
think over the events of the evening. 

Tlie hour of departure from Luckydog', for Sam's coach, 
;vas four o'clock in the morning; and its driver Avas not a 
little surprised, Avhen about to mount the box, to discover 
Mrs. "Page waiting to take a seat beside him. After the ad- 
venture of the jjrevious night, it Avas with some restraint 
that he addressed her; and there was wanting, also, some- 
thing of his cheerful alacrity of manner, when he requested 
the stranger who had taken the box-seat, to 3'ield it to a 
lad}'. The stranger's mood seemed uncongenial, for he de- 
clined to abdicate, intimating that there Avas room for the 
lady between himself and the driver, if she insisted upon 
an outside seat. 

But Mrs. Page did not insist. She whispered Sam to 
open the coach-door, and quietly took a seat inside; and 
Sam, AA'ith a sense of irritation very unusual Avith him, 
climbed reluctantly to his place, giving the " cayuses " the 
lash in a way that set them oft' on a keen run. By the time 
he had gotten his team cooled doAvn, the unusual mood had 
passed, and the longing returned to hear the sweet voice, 
and Avatch the bright eyes that had made his hapi^iness on 
former occasions. Puzzled as he was, and pained by the 
CA'idence he possessed of her connection, in some waA'.with 
the victim of lynch-law, lltat seemed like a dream in the 



SAM BICE\S nOMANCE. 243 

clear, sunny air of morning, while the more blissful past 
asserted its claim to be considered reality. Not a lark, 
warbling- its flute-notes by tbe way-side, not a pretty bit of 
the familiar landscape, nor glim.pse of brook, that leaped 
sparkling- down the mountain, but recalled some charming 
utterance of Mrs. Doll}' Page, as he first knew her; as he 
could not now recognize her in the pale, nervous, and evi- 
dently suffering woman, sitting, eloseh' veiled, inside the 
coach. 

Occupied with these thoughts, Sam felt a disagreeable 
shock when the outside passenger — in a voice that con- 
trasted roughly with that other voice Avhich was murmuring 
in his ear — began a remark abov;t the mining prospects of 
Lucky-dog. 

"Some rich discoveries made iu the neighborhood, eh? 
Did you ever try your luck at mining?" 

" AVaal, no. I own a little stock, though," answered 
Sam, carelessly. 

" In what mine?" 

" In the Nip-and-tuck." 

"Good mine, from all I hear about it. Never did any 
prospecting?" asked the stranger, in that tone which de- 
notes only a desire to make talk, with a view to kill time. 

" No," in the same tone. 

"That's odd," stuffing a handful of cut tobacco into his 
mouth. " I'd have sworn 'twas you I saw swinging- a pick 
in the canon east of camp last night." 

" I'm not much on picks," Sam returned, Avitli a slowness 
that well counterfeited indifference. " I was visting a lady 
last evening, which is a kind of prospecting more in my 
line." 

"Yes, I understand; that lady inside the coach. She's a 
game one." 

" It strikes me you're devilish free in your remarks," said 
Sam, becoming irritated again. 

"No offense meant, I'm sure. Take a cigar? We may 



2H SAM BICE'S ROMANCE. 

as ^vell tiilk this matter over calmly, Mr. Rice. You see it's 
teu to one that you are imijlicated in this business. Been 
very attentive to Mrs. Page. Made several trips together. 
Let her handle your horses, so she could take them out of 
the stable for them thieves. Buried her thieving, gambling 
husband for her. You see the case looks bad, anyway; 
though I'm inclined to think you've just been made a tool of. 
I know she's a smart one. Tain't often j'ou find one 
smarter. " 

Sam's eyes scintilliated. He was strangly minded to 
pitch the outside passenger off the coach. The struggle in 
his breast between conviction and resistance to conviction 
amounted to agony. He could not, in that supreme moment, 
discriminate between the anger he felt at being falselj' ac- 
cu.sed, and the grief and rage of being so horrible disillu^ 
sioned. Their combined anguish paled his cheeks, and set 
his teeth on edge : of all of which the outside passenger was 
C00II3' cognizant. As they were, at that moment, in sight 
of the first station, he resumed. 

" Let her get up here, if she w^ants to; I can ride inside, 
I don't want to be hard on her; but mind, if you breathe a 
word to her about my being an officer, I'll arrest 3'ou on 
suspicion. Let ever}^ tub stand on its own bottom. If she's 
guilty, you can't help her, and dont want to, either; if she's 
innocent, she'll come out all right, never fear. Are 30U on 
the square, now ?" 

" Have you got a warrant?" asked Sam, in a low tone, as 
he wound the lines around the break, previous to getting 
down. 

" You bet ! but I'm in no hurry to serve it. Pinej'-w^oods 
station 'ill do just as well. Telegraph office there." 

Mr. Rice was not in any haste this morning, being, as he 
said, ahead of time. He invited Mrs. Page to take her 
usual place on the box, telling her the gentleman had con- 
cluded to go inside; and brought her a glass of water from 
the bar. "While he was returning the glass, the passengers, 



SAM BICE'S ROMANCE. 245 

iucluding liim of the outside, being busied assuaging' tlieir 
thirst with something stronger than water, a rattle of wheels 
and a clatter of hoofs was heard, and, lo! Mrs. Dolly Page 
was discovered to be practicing her favorite accomplishment 
of driving six-in-haud ! 

"When the "outside" recovered from his momentary sur- 
prise, he clapped his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Kice, and 
said, in a voice savage with spite and disappointment: 

" I arrest you, sir." 

"Arrest and be d -d!" returned Sam. "If you had 

done your duty, you'd have arrested her while you had the 
chance." 

" That's so — your head is level; and if you'll assist me in 
getting on to Piney-woods station in time to catch the run- 
away — for she can't very well drive beyond that station — I'll 
let you off." 

" You'll wait till I'm on, I reckon. My horses can't go 
on that errand, and you darsn't take the up-driver's team. 
Put that it your pipe and smoke it, old smarty !" — and Sam's 
eyes emitted steel-blue lightnings, though his face wore a 
fixed expression of smiling. 

Upon inquiry, it was ascertained that horses might be 
procured a mile back from the station; and, while the 
baffled officer, and such of the passengers as could not wait 
until next day, went in pursuit of them, Sam mounted one 
of the " cayuses," and made what haste he could after the 
coach and Wells, Fargo & Company's express-box. AVithin 
a mile or less of Piney-woods Station, he met the keejier, 
the grooms, and an odd man or two, that chanced to have 
been about the place, all armed to the teeth, who, when they 
saw him, halted in surprise. 

" Why, we reckoned you was dead," said the head man, 
with an air of disappointment. 

" Dead?" relocated Sam. " Have you seen my coach? " 

"That's all right, down to the station; and the plucky 
gal that druv it told us all about the raid the ' road-agents' 
made on you. W^har's the passengers? any of 'em killed?" 



246 SAM BICE'S ROMANCE. 

" Piisseugers are all ri^^ht. AVliere is Mrs. Page?" 

"She crietl, an' tak on awful about ye; an' borrerccl a 
boss to ride right on down the road to meet the other stage, 
an' let 'em know Avhat's up." 

"She did, did slie ? " said Sam, ver^' thoiightfull}'. 
" AVaal, that is odd. Wliy, she ran awa}- with my team — 
that's what she did; and it's all a hoax about the ' road- 
agents.' The passengers are back at the other station." 

Sam had suddenly become "all things to all men," to a 
degree that surprised himself. He was wrong about the 
horse, too, as was jDroven by its return to its owner four 
days after. By the same hand came the following letter to 
Mr. Samuel Kice: 

Dear Mr. Eice: It was so good of you! I thank you more 
than I can say. I Avish I could set myself right in j'our 
eyes, for I prize your friendship dearl}' — dearly; but I know 
that I cannot. It has not been all my fault. I Avas married 
to a bad, bad man, when I Avas only fifteen. He has ruined 
ray life; but now he is dead, and I need not fear him. I 
ivill hereafter live as a good woman should live. The tears 
run down my cheeks as I write you this farewell — as they 
did that day Avhen I saw that SAveet Avoman and her babe at 
the farm-house gate; and knew AA'hat Avas in 3'our thought. 
Heaven send 3'ou such a Avife. Good-bye, dear Mr. Rice, 
good-bye. "Dolly Page!" 

There are some men, as well as women, in this world, 
Avho could figure in the I'ole of Evangeline, Avho have tender, 
loyal, and constant hearts. Such a one was the driA-er of 
the Lucky-dog stage. But, though he sat on that box for 
two years longer, and scrutinized every dark-eyed, sweet- 
A'oiced lady-passenger Avho rode in his coach during that 
time, often Avith an intense longing for a sight of the face 
he craved — it never came. Out of the heaven of his life 
that star had vanished forever, and nothing Avas left him 
but a soiled photograph, and a tear-stained letter, worn 
Avith frequent folding and unfolding. 



EL TESORO. 247 



EL TESORO. 

" TTTIMMEN nater is cur'us uater, that I'll allow. But 
VV a feller kind o' hankers arter 'era, fur all that. 
Thej^'re a luight}^ handj" thing to hev about a house." 

The above oracular statement proceeded from the jiarched 
and i^uckered lips of Sandj-haired Jim — one of the many 
" hands '' emploj-ed on the immense Tesoro Rancho, which 
covered miles of valley, besides extending up on to the 
eastern flank of the Coast Range, and taking in considera- 
ble tracts of woodland and mountain pasture. Long be- 
fore, when it acquired its name, under Spanish occupancy, 
there had been a rumor of the existence of the precious 
metals in the mountains which formed a portion of the 
grant; hence, its name, Tesoro, signifying treasure. All 
search for, or belief in, gold mines, had been abandoned, 
even before the land came into the jDossession of American 
owners, and now was only spoken of in the light of a 
Spanish legend; but the name was retained, partly as a 
geographical distinction of a large tract of country, though 
it was sometimes called the Edwards Ranch, after its pres- 
■ent proprietor, and after the American fashion of j)ro- 
nunciation. 

John Edwards had more than once said, in hearing of 
his men, that he would give half the proceeds of the mine 
and an interest in the ranch, to any One who would dis- 
cover it and prove it to be of value; a remark which was 
not without weight, especiall}' with the herders and shep- 
herds, whose calling took them into the mountains a con- 
siderable portion of the year. But as the offer of the 
proprietor never seemed to assume the air of a business 
proposition, the men who might have been inflamed by it 
with a prospecting fever, held in check their desire to 



248 AV. TESORO. 

acquire sudden riches, aud never looked ver}' sharp at the 
"indications," which it was easy sometimes to imagine 
they had found. But that is neither here nor there with 
Sand^'-haired Jim, who was not a cattle-herder, nor yet a 
shepherd, but farmer or teamster, as the requirement was, 
at dift'erent seasons of the year. 

He was expressing himself concerning John Edwards' 
sister, who, just one year ago, had come to set up domes- 
ticity in the house of her brother; whereas, previous to her 
advent, John had " bach'd it" on the ranch, with his men, 
for four or five years. Jim, and the chum to whom his 
remarks Avere addressed, were roosting on a fence, after the 
manner of a certain class of agriculturists, hailing usually 
from Missouri, and most frequently from the county of 
Pike. 

The pale December sunshine colored with a soft gold the 
light morning haze Avhich hung over the valley in w^hich 
lay the Tesoro Rancho. In spite of the year of drought 
which had scorched up the grain-fields, and given a char- 
acter of aridity to the landscai^e, it had a distinctive soft 
beauty of tint and outline, seen in the favoring light we 
have mentioned. Of all the fascinating pictures we re- 
member to have seen, the most remarkable was one of a 
desert scene, with nothing but the stretches of yellow sand 
and the golden atmosphere for middle distance and back- 
ground, and, for a foreground, a white tent, with camels 
and picturesquely costumed Arabs grouped before it. 
Thei'e was the sense of infinite distance in it which is so 
satisfying to the mind, which the few figures and broken 
lines intensified; and there was that witching warmth and 
mellowness of coloring w^hich does not belong to land- 
scapes where green and gray hues predominate. 

Having said thus much about a picture, we have ex- 
plained why Californian views, even in our great, almost 
treeless valleys, grow so into our hearts and imaginations, 
after the first dash of disappointment at not finding them 



EL TESORO. 249 

like the vernal vales of New England or central New York. 
But Tesoro Kancho Avas not treeless. Great spreading 
oaks furnished just the necessary dark-green tones in the 
valle}' landscape; and the mountain-sides had multifarious 
shades of color, furnished by rocks and tj'ees, by shadows, 
and b}- the atmosphere itself. 

It was no wonder, then, that sandy-haired Jim, sitting 
on a rail-fence, in an attitude more curious than graceful, 
cast his glance often unconsciously over the far valley- 
reaches, and up the mountain-sides, with a dim perception 
of something pleasant in the view which his thought took 
no cognizance of. In fact, for the last minute or two, his 
gaze had been a silent one; and any observer might have 
pondered, considering the sharpness of the perch beneath 
him, whether he might not be making up his mind to de- 
scend/ from it as soon as his slow-working mentality had 
had time to convey the decision of his brain to his muscles. 

At all events, that was what he did in answer to our men- 
tal query, taking up the thread of his discourse where it 
was broken off, as follows : 

"Miss Edwards, neow (thar she is, a-comin down from 
the mdunt'in, with her arms full of them 'zalias she's so 
fond of), she's a mighty peart kind of a gal, and wuth a 
heajD more to keep a man's house in good shape than one o' 
them soft-lookin' Chinee. Them's my sentiments." 

"That's so," responded his chum, seeming constitution- 
ally disinclined to a longer sentence. 

"John Edwards has tuk to dressin' hisself nicer, and 
flxin' up the place as he didn't used to when he bach'd it, 
I can tell ye! When I see her bringin' her pianny, and her 
picturs, and books, and sich like traps, I just told myself, 
' Neow, John Edwards has got a pretty passel of trash on 
his hands, I veow.' And I ment her as well as the other 
fol-de-rols. But, you bet 3'our life, she's got more sense, 
two to one, than ary one of us! It was a lucky daj' for Ed- 
wards when she came onto this ranch, sure's you're born." 



250 EL TESORO. 

What farther this equall}' philosophical and devoted ad- 
mirer of ]\Iiss Edwards might have said on this, to him, 
evidently interesting topic, had he not been interrupted, 
will never be known. For the lad^' herself apj^eared upon 
the scene, putting an end to her own praises, and discover- 
ing to us, upon nearer view, that she added youth and 
grace, if not absolute beauty, to her other qualities. 

Checking the rapid lope of her horse, as she came near 
where the men were standing, in attitudes of frank, if awk- 
ward, deference, she saluted them with a cheerful " Good- 
morning," and drew rein beside them. 

" Take Brownie by the head, and walk a little way with 
me, if you please, James. I have something I wish to say 
to you," was the lady's low-voiced command. A certain 
flush and pleased expression on honest Jim's rudd}' counte- 
nance reminded her instantl}' of the inherent vanit}' of man, 
and when she next addressed her attendant it was as " Mr. 
Harris," for such, indeed, was the surname of our lank 
Missourian, though not many of his associates had ever 
heard it. 

" How long have you been on this place, Mr. Harris?" 

" Near onto six year, Miss Edwards," replied Jim? 

"Did you know Mr. Charles Erskine, my brother's former 
partner ?" 

" Jiist as well as I know your brother. Miss." 

"What became of him, after he left this place?" 

"I couldn't rightly saj', miss. Some said he went to the 
mines, up in Idaho, and other folks said thej^'d seen him in 
'Frisco: but I don't know nary thing about him." 

•'He must be found, Mr. Harris. Do you- think you 
could find him, if I were to send you on such a mission? 
It is a very important one, and it is not every one I would 
intrust it to." 

The flush and the pleased look returned to Jim's face. 
"I'd do the best I could, miss; and, mebbe, I'd do as well 
as another." 



EL TESORO. 251 

"That is what I was thinking, Mr. Harris. You have 
been a long time here, and you are prompt and eai^ahle 
about your own business; so I concluded I could trust you 
with mine. I am sure I was quite right." 

Jim was going on to '* swar she was," when Miss Edwards 
interrupted him, to enlighten him further as to the require- 
ments of "her business:" "I do not wish my brother to 
know what errand I send you on. They had a dreadful 
quarrel once, I believe; and he might not agree Avith me as 
to the wisdom of what I am about to do. It will, there- 
fore, be necessary for you to ask John's permission to go 
on a visit to San Francisco, as if it was for yourself you 
were going. The drought has left so little to do that you 
can be spared, without embarrassment, until the rains be- 
gin. I am going to have a grand festival at Christmas, and 
I would like you to be home before that time. I will ex- 
plain further when you have got John's consent to your 
absence. Come to the house after, and ask if I have any 
commission for you." 

"When Miss Edwards cantered off, leaving him alone in 
the road, Jim was in a state of pleased beAvilderment, not 
unmixed with an instinctive jealousy. 

" I do wonder, neow, what she wants with Charlie Ers- 
kine. He was a powerful nice feller, and smart as lightnin'; 
but, somehow, he an' Edwards never could hitch bosses. 
Erskine alius went too fast for steady John, an' I doubt ef 
he didn't git him into some money troubles. I'd like to 
know, though, what that girl's got to do about it. Wonder 
ef she knowed him back in the States. Wimmen is cur'us, 
sure enough." 

Jim's suggestion was the true one. Miss Edwards had 
known Charles Erskine " back in the States," and when 
they parted last, it had been as engaged lovers. When she 
left her home in the East to join her brother, a speed}' 
marriage with him had been in contemplation. But how 
often did it happen, in old " steamer times," that wives left 



252 EL TEsono. 

New York to join liusbands in San Francisco, only to find, 
on arrival at the end of a long voyage, tlie dear ones bid- 
den from sight in the grave, or the false ones gone astray! 
And so it happened to Mary Edwards, that, when she set 
foot on California soil, no lover appeared to welcome her, 
and her trembling and blnshiug were turned to painful sus- 
j)ense and secret bitter tears. 

Her brother had vouclisafed very little explanation; only 
declaring Charles Erskine a scoundrel, who had nearly 
ruined him, and swearing he should never set foot on Te- 
soro Ranclio until every dollar of indebtedness was paid. 
Poor Mary fouud it hard settling into a place so new, and 
duties so unaccustomed; but her good sense and good 
spirits conquered difficulties as they arose, until now she 
was quite inclined to like the new life for its own sake. 
Her brother w'as kind, and gathered about her every com- 
fort and many luxuries; though, owing to embarrassments 
into which Erskine had drawn him, and to the losses of a 
year of drought, his purse was not overflowing. Such was 
the situation of affairs on the December morning when our 
story opens. 

Miss Edwards mentioned to her brother, during the 
da}', that James Harris had si)oken of going to the city, 
and that she had some commissions for him to perform. 
She had made up her mind to discountenance the heathen 
habits into which everybody on the ranch had fallen. She 
had done all she could to keep the men from going to 
bull-fights on the Sabbath, and had oflt'ered to read the 
morning service, if the men would attend; and now she 
was going to celebrate Christmas, though she really did be- 
lieve that the people w^ho never saw snow forgot that Christ 
was ever born! Yet was he not born in a country very 
strongly resembling this very one which ignoi'ed him ? 

John smiled, and offered no ojiposition; only bidding her 
remember not to make her commissions to the city very 
expensive ones, and suggesting, that, since she meant to be 



EL TESORO. 253 

gay, she liatl better send some invitations to certain of their 
friends. 

"B}- the way John, do you know where Charles Erskine 
is ?" Miss Edwards asked, with much forced composure. 

" The last I heard of him he was in San Francisco, lying 
dangerously ill," answered John coldl}-. 

"Oh, John!" 

" Mary, you must ho^^e notlnng from that man. Don't 
waste your sympathies on him, either; he'll never repay 
you the outgo." 

" Tell me just one thing, John: "Was Charles ever false 
to me? Tell me the truth." 

" I think he kept good faith with you. It is not that I 
complain of in his conduct. The quarrel is strictly between 
us. He can never come here, with ni}' consent." 

" But I can go to him," said Miss Edwards, very quietly. 

And she did go — with Sandy-haired Jim for an escort, and 
her brother's frowning face haunted her. 

"If all is right," she said to him, at the very last, " I will 
be back to keep Christmas with you. Think as well as you 
can of me, John, and — good-by." 

It will be seen, that, whatever Miss Edwards' little, wo- 
manly plan of reconciliation had been, it was, as to details, 
all changed by the information John had given her. "What 
next she would do depended on circumstances. It was, 
perhaps, a question of life and death. The long, wearying, 
dusty stage-ride to San Francisco, passed like a disagree- 
able dream; neither incident of heat by day, nor cold by 
night, or influence of grand or lovely scenes, seemed to 
touch her consciousness. James Harris, in his best clothes 
and best manuers^the latter having a certain gentle dignity 
about them that was born of the occasion — sat beside her, and 
ministered assiduously to those personal wants which she 
had forgotten in the absorption of her painful thoughts. 

What Jim himself thought, if his mental processes could 
be called thinking, it would be difficult to state. He was 



254 EL TESORO. 

dimly conscious that iu his companion's mind there was a 
heavy trouble brooding; and conscious, also, of a desire to 
alleviate it, as far as possible, thoiigh in what way that 
miglit be done, he had not the remotest idea. There seemed 
an immense gulf between her and him, over which he never 
could reach to proffer consolation; and while he blindly 
groped in his own mind for some hint of his duty, he was 
fain to be content with such personal attentions as defend- 
ing her from heat and cold, dust and fatigue, and remind- 
ing her that eating and drinking were among the necessary 
inconveniences of this life. After a couple of days spent in 
revolving the case hopelessly in his brain, his thoughts at 
length shaped themselves thus: 

" Waal, neow, 'taint no concern of mine, to be sure; but 
I'm beouad to see this gal threough. She's captain of this 
train, an' only got ter give her orders. I'll obey 'em, ef 
they take me to tliunder. That's so, I veow!" After 
which conclusion of the whole matter, Jim appeared more 
at his ease in all respects. In truth, the most enlightened 
of us go to school to just such mental struggles, with profit 
to our minds and manners. 

Arrived at San Francisco, Miss Edwards took quarters at 
at a hotel, determined before reporting herself to any of 
her acquaintance to first find whether Charles Erskine was 
alive, and, if so, where he could be found. What a weari- 
some search was that before traces of him were discovered, 
in a cheap boarding-house, in a narrow, dirty street. And 
what bitter disappointment it was to learn that he had gone 
away some weeks before, as soon as he was able to be 
moved. To renew the search iu. the city, to send telegrams 
in every direction, was the next effort, which, like the first, 
proved fruitless; and, at the end of ten days Miss Edwards 
made a few formal calls on her friends, concluded some 
necessary purchases, and set out on her return to Tesoro 
Rancho, exhausted in mind and body. 

If Jim was careful of her comfort before, he was tender 



EL TESORO. 255 

toward ber now; and the lady accepted the protecting care 
of the serving-man with a dull sense of gratitude. She even 
smiled on him faintly, in a languid waj', but in a way that 
seemed to him to lessen the distance between them. Jim's 
education had been going on rapidly during the last ten 
days. He seemed to himself to be quite another man than 
the one who sat on the fence with Missouri Joe, less than 
two weeks agone. 

Perhaps Miss Edwards noticed the change, aud inno- 
centlj'^ encouraged him to aspire. AYe must not blame her 
if she did. This is what woman's education makes of her. 
The most cultured women must be grateful and flattering 
toward the rudest men, if circumstances throw them to- 
gether. Born to dejDend on somebody, they must depend 
on their inferiors when their superiors are not at hand; 
must, in fact, assume an inferiority to those inferiors. If 
they sometimes turn their heads with the dangerous defer- 
ence, what wonder! 

Secure in the distance between them. Miss Edwards as- 
sumed that she could safely defer to Sandy -haired Jim, if, 
as it seemed, he enjoyed the sense of being her protector. 
Even had he been her equal, she would have said to herself, 
" He knows m}' heart is breaking for another, and will re- 
spect my grief." In this double security, she paid no heed 
to the devotion of her companion, only thinking him the 
kindest and most awkward of good and simple-minded 
men. That is just what any of us would have thought 
about Sandy-haired Jim, gentle readers. 

John Edwards received his sister with a grave kindliness, 
which aggravated her grief. He would not ask her a ques- 
tion, nor give her the smallest opportunity of appealing to 
his sympathies. She had undertaken this business without 
his sanction, and without his sympathy she must abide the 
consequences. Toward her, personally, he should ever 
feel and act brotherly; but toward her foolish weakness for 
Erskiue, he felt no charity. He was surprised and pleased 



25G EL TESOIiO. 

to see that his sister's spirit was nearly equal to his own; 
for, tliougli visibly " j^ale and pining," after the absurd 
fashion of women, she went about her duties and recrea- 
tions as usual, and prosecuted the threatened preparations 
for Christmas with enthusiasm. 

In some of these, it was necessary' to employ the services 
of one of the men, and Miss Edwards, without much 
thought of why, excejit that she was used to him, singled 
out Jim as her assistant. To her surprise, he excused him- 
self, and begged to substitute Missouri Joe. 

"You see, jMiss Edwards, I've been a long time meanin' 
to take a trip into the mount'ins. I allow it'll rain in less 
nor a week, an' then it'll be too late; so ef you'll excuse me 
this onct, I'll promise to be on hand next time, sure." 

" Oh, certainly, Mr. Harris; Joe will do very well, no 
doubt; and there is no need for you to make excuses. I 
thought you would like to assist about these preparations, 
and I am sure you would, too; but go, by all means, for, 
f>s you say, it must rain very soon, when it will be too late." 

" Thar's nothing I'd like better nor stayin' to work for 
you, Miss Edwards," answered Jim, with some appearance 
of confusion; "but this time I'm obleeged to go— I am, 
sure." 

" Well, good-by, and good luck to you, Mr. Harris," 
Miss Edwards said, pleasantly. 

" Ef she only knowed what I'm a goin' fur!" muttered 
Jim to himself, as he went to "catch up" his horse, and 
pack up two or three days' rations of bread and meat. 
" But I ain't goin' to let on about it to a single soul. It's 
best to keep this business to myself, I reckon. 'Peared 
like 'twas a hint of that kind she give me, the other day, 
when she said, ' The gods help them that helj^ themselves, 
Mr. Harris.' Such a heap o' sense as that gal's got! She's 
smarter'n John Edwards and me, and Missouri Joe, to boot: 
but I'm a-gainin' on it a leetle — I'ma-gainin' on it a leetle," 
concluded Jim, slowly, puckering his parched and sunburnt 
lips into a significant expression of mystery. 



EL TESORO. 257 

What it was he was " gainiu' on," did not apj)ear, for 
the Aveight of his thoughts had brought him to a dead- 
stand, a few feet from the fence, on the hither side of which 
was the animal he contemplated riding. At this juncture 
of entire absence of mind, the voice of John Edwards, hail- 
ing him from the road, a little way off, dissolved the spell: 

" I say, Jim," hallooed Edwards; " if you discover that 
mine, I will give you half of it, and an interest in the 
ranch." 

The words seemed to electrify the usually slow mind to 
which the idea was addressed. Turning short about, Jim, 
in a score of long strides, reached the fence separating him 
from Edwards. 

" Will you put that in writin'?" 

"To be sure, I will," answered John, nodding his head, 
with a i:)uzzled and ironical smile. 

" I'll go to the house with ye, an' hev it done to ouct," 
said Jim, sententiously. " I hev about an hour to spar, I 
reckon." 

John Edwards was struck by the unusual manner of the 
l^roverbially deliberate man, who had served him with the 
same unvarying "slow and sure" faithfulness for years; 
but he refrained from comments. Jim, in his awkward way, 
proved to be more of a man of business than could have 
been expected. 

"I want a bond fur a deed, Mr. Edwards. That's the 
best way to settle it, I reckon." 

" That is as good a way as an}-; the discovery to be made 
within a certain time.' 

" An' what interest in the ranch, Mr. Edwards ? " 

"Well, about the ranch," said John, thoughtfully, "I 
don't want to run any risk of trading it off for nothing, and 
there will have to be conditions attached to the transfer of 
any portion of that more than the one of discovery of the 
mine. Let it be this way: that on the mine proving b}' 
actual results to be worth a certain sum — say $50,000 — the 
17 



258 EL TESORO. 

deeil k1i;i11 l)e given to half tlic mine and one-tliinl interest 
in the ranch; the supposition being, that, if it is proved to 
be worth f50,000, it is probal)ly worth four times or ten 
times that amount." 

"That's about it, I shoiihl say," returned Jim. "It's 
lib'ral in you, any way, Mr. Edwards." 

" The truth is, Harris," said Edwards, looking him stead- 
ily in the eye, " I am in a devil of a pinch, that's the truth 
of it; and I am taking gambling chances on this thing. I 
only hope you may earn your third of the ranch. I'll not 
grudge it to you, if you do." 

"Thank ye, sir. An' when them papers is made eout, 
I'll be off." 

John handed him his papers half an hour afterward, 
which Jim prudently took care to have witnessed. Miss 
Edwards being called in, signed her name. 

" So, this is what takes you to the mountains, Mr. Harris? 
I'm sure I wish 3'ou good luck." 

" You did that afore, miss; an' it came, right on the 
spot." 

" I must be your ' wishing fairy,'" said she, laughing. 

"I'll bring 3'ou a Christmas present. Miss Edwards, like 
as not," Jim answered, coloring with delight at the 
thought. 

"I hope you may. Thank you for the intention, any 
way." 

"Are you going all alone, Harris?" asked Edwards, as 
he accompanied him a short distance from the house. " It 
is not quite safe going alone, is it ? Have you any heirs, 
supposing you lose yourself or break j'our neck?" 

Once more Jim was electrified with an idea. His light, 
gray eyes turned on his questioner with a sudden Hash of 
intelligence : 

"J mought choose my heir, I reckon." 

" Certainly." 

" Mought we ixo back to the house, an' make a will?" 



EL TESORO. 259 

" Aren't you afraid turning back so often may spoil your 
luck?" asked Edwards, laughing. 

" Ef you tliink so, I'll never do it," answered Jim, so- 
berly. " But I'll tell you, onct fur all, who it is shall be 
my heir if any thing chance me, an' I'll expect j^oull act on 
the squar: that person is Miss Mary Edwards, your own 
sister, an' you'll not go fur to dispute my will?" 

" I've no right to dispute your will, whether I approve 
of it or not. There will be no proof of it, however, and I 
could not make over j'our property to my sister, should 
there be other heirs with a natural and rightful claim to it. 
But you are not going to make your will just yet, Harris; 
so, good-b}'. You'll be home on Christmas?" 

"I reckon I will." 

John Edwards turned back to the house, and to banter 
his sister on Jim Harris's will, while that individual went 
about the business of his journey. His s))irits were in a 
strange state of half-elation, half-depression. The depres- 
sion was a natural consequence of the talk about a will, 
and the elation was the result of a strong and sudden faith 
which had sprung up in him in the success of his under- 
taking, and of the achievements of every kind it would ren- 
der possible. 

" She's my ' wishin' fairy,' she said, an' she wished me 
luck twice. I got the first stroke of it when John Edwards 
called to me across the field. I've got him strong on that; 
an' I war a leetle surprised, too. He wanted to make me 
look sharp, that's clar as mud. I'll look sharp, you bet, 
John Edwards! Didn't her hand look purty when she 
wrote her name? I've got her name to look at, anyway." 
And at this stage of his reverie, Jim drew from an inner 
breast-pocket the bond which Miss Edwards had witnessed, 
and, after gazing at the signature for a moment with move- 
less features, gave a shy, hasty glance all round him, and 
pressed his parched and puckered lips on the pajjer. 

The sentiment which caused this ebullition of emotion in 



260 EL TESORO. 

Sandy-haired Jim was one so dimly defined, so little under- 
stood, and so absolutely pure in its nature, that had Miss 
Edwards been made aware of it, she could only have seen 
in it the toiiching tribute which it was to abstract womanli- 
ness — to the " wimmen nater," of which Jim was so frank 
an admirer. The gulf which was between them had never 
yet been crossed, even in imagination, though it is pre- 
sumable; that, unknown to himself, Jim was trembling on 
the verge of it at this moment, dragged thither by the ex- 
citement of prospective wealth and the ^possibilities involved 
in it, and b}^ the recollection of the pleasant words and 
smiles of this, to him, queen of women. 

After this gush of romance — the first and ovAy one Jim 
had ever been guilty of — he returned the document to his 
pocket, and, with his customary deliberation, proceeded to 
catch and mount his horse, and before noon was on his way 
across the valle}' , toward that joarticular gorge in the mount- 
ain where el teaoro was supposed to be located. John Ed- 
wards stood in the house door watching him ambling over 
the waste, yellow plain, until Jim and his horse together 
appeared a mere speck in the distance, when he went to 
talk over with his sister the late transaction, and make some 
jesting remarks on the probability of the desired discovery. 

The days sped by, and there remained but two before 
Christmas. John and his sister were consulting together 
over the arrangement of some evergreen arches and wreaths 
of bay-leaves. Miss Edwards was explaining where the 
floral ornaments should come in, Avhere she would have this 
jDicture, and where that, and how it would be best to light 
the rooms. 

"I confess, John," she said, sitting down to braid the 
scarlet berries of the native arbutus into a wreath with the 
leaves of the California nutmeg, " that I can not make it 
seem like winter or like Christmas, with these open doors, 
these flow^ers, and this warm sunlight streaming in at the 
windows. I do Avish we could have a flurry of snow, to 
make it seem like the holidays." 



EL TESORO. 261 

" Snow is out of the question; but I should be thankful 
for a good rain-storm. If it does not rain soon, there will 
be another failure of crops next year in all this part of the 
conniYy." 

"And then we should have to 'go down into Egypt for 
corn,' as the Israelites used so. Do you feel very apprehen- 
sive, John?" 

Before John could reply, his attention was diverted by a 
strange arrival. Dismounting from Jim's horse was a man 
whom he did not at once recognize, so shabby were his 
clothes, so worn and haggard his appearance. With a feel- 
ing of vague uneasiness and curiosity, he sauntered toward 
the gate, to give such greeting as seemed fit to the stranger 
who came in this guise, yet riding a well-conditioned horse 
belonging to one of his own men. 

Miss Edwards, who had also recognized the animal, ran, 
impulsively, to the door. She saw her brother advance to 
within a few feet of the stranger, then turn abruptly on his 
heel and return toward the house. The man thus con- 
temptuously received, reeled, as if he would have fallen, 
but caught at the gate-post, where he remained, leaning, as 
if unable to walk. 

"Who is it, John?" asked Miss Edwards, anxiously re- 
garding her brother's stern countenance; but he passed her, 
without a word. 

A sudden pallor swept over her face, and she looked, for 
one moment, as if she might have fainted; then, with a cry 
of, "Oh, John, John, be merciful!" she ran after him, and 
threw her arms about him. 

"Let me go, Mary," said he, hoarsely. " If you wish to 
see Charfes Erskine, you can do as you please, /wash my 
hands of him." 

"But, John, he is ill; he is suffering; he may die — and 
at your gate! " 

"Let him die!" 

It was then that the soul of Miss Edwards " stood up in 



262 EL TESORO. 

her eyes, aud looked at" lier lu'otber. She withdi'ew her 
arms and turned mutely toward the door, out of which she 
passed, Avith a proud, resolute, and rapid tread. Without 
hesitation she did that which is so hard for a woman to do 
— make advances toward the man with whom she had once 
been in tender relations, but whose position has, for any 
reason, been made to appear doubtful. She went to him, 
took him by the hand, and inquired, more tremulously than 
she meant, what she could do for him. 

"Mary!" answered the sick man, and then fainted quite 
away. 

Miss Edwards had him (conveyed to her own room, by the 
hands of Missouri Joe and the Chinese cook, Avhere she dis- 
pensed such restoratives as finally brought back conscious- 
ness; and some slight nourishment being administered, re- 
vealed the fact that exhaustion and famine, more than dis- 
ease, had reduced the invalid to his present condition; on 
becoming aware of which fact, Miss Edwards grew suddenly 
embarrassed, and, arranging everj'thing for his comfort, 
w^as about to withdraw from the apartment, w'hen Erskine 
beckoned to her, and, fumbling in his pockets, brought out 
several pieces of white quartz, thickly studded with yellow 
metal, but of the value of which she had little conception. 

" Take these to John," he said, " and tell him they are a 
peace-offering. They came from el iesoro." 

"You have seen James Harris; and he has discovered the 
mine ! " 

" I have seen no one. I discovered the mine myself.'' 

" But the horse? It was Harris' horse you were riding." 

"I did not know it; I found him, fortunately, when I 
could no longer walk." . 

" Poor Charlie," whispei'ed Miss Edwards, moved by 
that womanly weakness which is always betraying the sex. 
She never knew how it was, but her head sank on the 
pillow; and, when she remembered it afterward, she was 
certain that, in the confusion of her ideas, he kissed her. 



EL TESORO. 263 

Then she fled from the room, and sought her brother every- 
where, saying-, over and over, to herself, "Poor Jim! I 
wonder what has happened to him;" with tears streaming 
from her exea, which she piously attributed to apprehen- 
sions for James Harris. 

AYhen John was found, and the " specimens" placed in 
his hands, he was first incredulous, and then indignant; for 
it hurts a proud man to be forced to change an opinion, or 
forgive an injury. The pressure of circumstances being 
too stroug for him, he relented so far as to see Erskine, and 
talk over the discovery with him. AVhat more the two men 
talked of, never transpired; but Miss Edwards concluded 
that everything was settled, as her brother gave orders con- 
cerning the entertainment of his former partner, and looked 
and spoke with unusual vivacity for the remainder of the 
day. 

Many conjectures w^ere formed concerning the fate of 
Sandy-haired Jim, by the men on the ranch, who generally 
agreed that his horse would not leave him, and that, if he 
were alive, he would be found not far from the spot where 
Charles Erskine picked up the animal. From Erskine's 
account, it appeared that he had been several weeks in the 
mountains, prospecting, before he discovered the mine; by 
which time he was so reduced in strength, through hard- 
ship and insufficient food, that it was with difficulty he made 
his way down to the valley. Just at a time when to pro- 
ceed further seemed imiDossible, and when he had been ab- 
sent two days from the mine, he fell in with a riding-horse, 
quietly grazing, at the foot of the mountain. Catching 
and mounting him, he rode, first along the edge of the val- 
ley for some distance, to find, if possibly a party Avere en- 
camped there; but finding no one, started for his old home, 
riding as long as his strength alloAved, and dismounting 
quite often to rest. In this way, three days and a half had 
passed, since the discover}^ of the mine. Judging from 
where the horse was found, Harris must have gone up on 



264 EL TESOBO. 

the other side of the ridge or spur, in which el tosorn was 
located. At all events, it was decided to send a party to 
look for him, as, whether or not any accident had befallen 
him, he was now without the means of reaching home; and, 
to provide for any emergencies, John ordered the light 
wagon to be taken along, with certain other articles, so sug- 
gestive of possible pain and calamity, that Miss Edwards 
felt her blood chilled by the sight of them. 

" He will be so disappointed," she said, " not to have 
been the discoverer of the mine. John, you must make 
him a handsome present, and I will see what I can do, to 
show my gratitude for his many kindnesses." 

And then, happy in the presence of her lover, and the 
returning cheerfulness of her brother. Miss Edwards for- 
got to give more than a passing thought to James Harris, 
while she busied herself in the preparations for a holiday, 
which, to her, would be doubly an anniversary, ever after- 
ward. 

The clouds, which had been gathering for a storm, dur- 
ing the past week, sent down a deluge of rain, on Christ- 
mas Eve, making it necessary to light fires in the long- 
empty fire-places, and giving a truly festive glow to the 
holiday adornments of the Edwards Rancho. The ranch 
hands were dancing to the music of the "Arkansas Trav- 
eler," in their separate quarters. John Edwards's half- 
dozen friends from the city, with two or three of his sister's, 
and the now convalescent Charles Erskine, clothed in a suit 
of borrowed broadcloth, were making mirth and music, 
after their more refined fashion, in Miss Edwards's parlor. 

At the hour when, according to tradition, the Bethlehem 
Babe was born, Missouri Joe appeared at the door, and 
made a sign to the master of the house. 

"It's a pity, like," said Joe, softly, "to leave him out 
thar in the storm." 

" ' Him !' Do you mean Harris? How is he?" 

"The storm can't hurt him none," continued Joe; "an' 



EL TESORO. 265 

it do not look riglit to fetch him in yer, nor to 'tother 
house, no more." 

""What is it, John?" Miss Edwards asked anxiously, 
looking over his shoulder into the darkness. ' ' Has Harris 
returned ?" 

"They have broiaght him," answered John; "and we 
must have him in here." 

She shrank away, frightened and distressed, while the 
men brought what remained of Sandy-haired Jim, and de- 
posited it carefully on a wooden bench in the hall. There 
was little to be told. The men had found him at the foot 
of a precipice where he had fallen. Beside him was a 
heavy nugget of pure gold, which he was evidently carry- 
ing when he fell. He had not died immediately, for in his 
breast-pocket was found the bond, with this indorsement, 
in pencil: 

' ' I hev lit onto the mine f oiler mi trail up the kenyon 
miss Mary edwards is mi air so help me God goodby. 

James Hakris." 

They buried him on Christmas Day; and Miss Edwards, 
smiling through her quiet-flowing tears, adorned his coffin 
with evergreen-wreaths and flowers. "I am glad to do 
this for him," she whispered to her lover, "for if ever 
there was a heart into which Christ was borti at its birth, it 
was poor Jim's." 



POEMS. 



POEMS. 



A PAGAN REVERIE. 

Teli me, Biotber Nature! tender jet stern mother! 
In what nomenclature (fitlier than another) 
Can I laud and praise thee, entreat and implore thee; 
Ask thee what thy ways be, question yet adore thee. 

Over me thy heaven bends its roj^al arches; 
Through its vault the seven planets keep their marches: 
Rising, shining, setting, with no change or turning; 
Never once forgetting — wasted not with burning. 

On and on, unceasing, move the constellations, 
Lessening nor increasing since the biiih of nations: 
Sun and moon unfailing keep their times and seasons,— 
But man, unavailing, pleads to thee for reasons. 

Why the great dumb mountains, why the ocean hoary— 
Even the babbling fountains, older are than story. 
And his life's duration 's but a few short marches 
Of the constellations through the heavenly arches! 

Even the oaks of Mamre, and the palms of Kedar, 
(Praising thee with psalmry) and the stately cedar, 
Through the cycling ages, stinted not are growing, — 
While the holiest sases have not time for knowing. 



270 ^1 PAGAN REVERIE. 

Motlier whom we cherish, savage "wliile so tender, 
Do the lilies perish mourning their lost splendor? 
Does the diamond shimmer brightlier that eternal 
Time makes nothing dimmer of its light supernal? 

Do the treasures hidden in earth's rocky bosom, 
Cry to men unbidden that they come and loose them? 
Is the dew of dawntide sad because the Summer 
Kissed to death the fawn-eyed Spring, the earlier comer? 

Would the golden vapors trooping over heaven, 

Quench the starry tapers of the sunless even ? 

"When the arrowy lightnings smite the rocks asunder. 

Do they shrink with frightenings from the bellowing thunder? 

Inconceivable Nature! these, thy inert creatures, 
"With their sphinx-like stature, are of man the teachers; 
Silent, secret, passive, endless as the ages, 
'Gainst their forces massive fruitlessly he rages. 

"Winds and waves misuse him, buffet and destroy him; 
Thorns and pebbles bruise him, heat and cold annoy him; 
Sting of insect maddens, snarl of beast affrights him; 
Shade of forest saddens, breath of flowers delights him. 

O thou great, mysterious mother of all mystery! 
At thy lips imperious man entreats his history. — 
AVhence he came — and whither is his spirit fleeing: 
Ere it wandered hither had it other being: 

"Will its subtile essence, passing through death's portal, 
Put on nobler presence in a life immortal? 
Or is man but matter, that a touch ungentle, 
Back again may shatter to forms elemental? 

Can mere atoms question how they feel sensation? 
Or dust make suggestion of its own creation ? 
Yet if man were better than his base conditions, 
Could thinj^s baser fetter his sublime ambitions? 



A PAGAN REVERIE. 271 

"What unknown conjunction of the jDure etherial, 
"With the form and function of the gross material, 
Gives the product mortal? whose immortal yearning- 
Biings him to the portal of celestial learning. 

To the portal gleaming, where the waiting sphinxes, 
Humoring his dreaming, give him what he thinks is 
Key to the arcana — plausible equation 
Of the problems mau}^ in his incarnation. 

Pitiful delusion! — in no nomenclature — 
Maugre its profusion — O ambiguous nature ! 
Can man find expression of his own relation 
To the great procession of facts in creation? 

Fruitless speculating! none may lift the curtain 
From the antedating ages and uncertain 
"When what is was not, and tides of pristine being 
Beat on shores forgot, and all, as now, vmseeing. 

"Whence impelled or whither, or by what volition; 
Boiiie now here, now thither, in blind inanition. 
Out of this abysmal, nebulous dim distance. 
Haunted by a dismal, phantomic existence, 

Issued man? — a creature without inspiration. 
Gross of form and feature, dull of inclination? 
Or was his primordial self a something higher? 
Fresh from test and ordeal of elemental fire. 

Were these ages golden while the world was younger, 
"When the giants olden knew not toil nor hunger? 
"When no pain nor malice marred joy's full completeness. 
And life's honeyed chalice rapt the soul with sweetness? 

AVhen the restless river of time loved to linger; 
Ere flesh felt the quiver of death's dissolving finger; 
"When man's intuition led without deflection, 
To a sure fruition, and a full perfection. 



rj 



PASSma BY HELICON. 



Iiulividuiil man is ever new created: 
What Lis being's plan is, loosely predicated 
On the circumstances of his sole condition, 
Colored by the fancies borrowed from tradition. 

His creation gives him clue to nothing older: 

Naked, life receives him — wondering beholder 

Of the w^orld about him- — and ere aught is certain. 

Time and mystery flout him; and death drops the curtain. 

Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be. 
Cheers himself with hoping to be what he w^ould be : 
When he hopes no longer, Avith self-adulation, 
Fancies he was stronger at his first creation: 

Else — in him inhering powers of intellection — 
Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection, 
Itself gives security to restore life's treasure. 
Freed from all impurity and in endless measure. 

Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is sjioken. 
Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken: 
All in vain the sages toil with proof and question — 
The immemorial ages give no least suggestion . 



PASSING BY HELICON. 

My steps are turned away; 
Yet my eyes linger still. 
On their beloved hill. 
In one long, last survey: 
Gazing through tears that multiply the view, 
Their passionate adieu ! 

O, joy-empurpled height, 
Down whose enchanted sides 
The rosy mist now glides, 



PASSI^''G BY helicon: 21 S 

How can I loose thy sight ? 
How can my eyes turn where my feet must go, 
Trailing their way in woe ? 

Gone is my strength of heart; 
The roses that I brought 
From thy dear bowers, and thought 
To keep, since "we must part — 
Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now, 
Thau round Hymettus' brow. 

The golden-vested bees 

Find sweetest sweetness in — 
Such odors dwelt within 
The moist red hearts of these — 
Alas, no longer give out blissful breath. 
But odors rank with death. 

Their dewiness is dank; 
It chills my pallid arms. 
Once blushing 'neatli their charms; 

And their green stems hang lank. 
Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more, 
But withered to the core. 

Yain thought! to bear along. 
Into this torrid track. 
Whence no one tiirneth back 
With his first wanderer's song- 
Yet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews, 
To deck these dwarfed yews. 

No more within thy vales, 
Beside thy plashing wells, 
Where sweet Euterpe dwells 
With songs of nightingales. 
And sounds of flutes that make pale Silence glow, 
Shall I their rapture know. 
18 



274 PASSING BY HELICON. 

Farewell, ye statel}-^ palms! 
Clashing your c^'inbal tones, 
In thro' the mystic moans 
Of pines at solemn psalms: 
Ye mj'rtles, singing Love's inspired song. 
We part, and part for long! 

Farewell, majestic peaks! 
"Whereon my listening soul 
Hath trembled to the roll 
Of thundex-s that Jove wreaks — 
And calm Minerva's oracles hath heard 
All more than now unstirred ! 

Adien, ye beds of bloom ! 
No more shall zephyr bring 
To me, upon his wing, 
Your loveliest perfume; 
No more ujjon your pure, immortal dyes. 
Shall rest my happy eyes. 

I pass by; at thy foot, 
O, mount of my delight ! 
Ere yet from out thy sight, 
I drop my voiceless lute : 
It is in vain to strive to cany hence 
Its olden eloquence. 

Your sacred groves no more 
My singing shall prolong, 
"With echoes of my song, 
Doubling it o'er and o'er. 
Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes, 
What dreams of thee sliall rise ! 



LOST AT SEA. 275 

Rise but to be dispelled — 
For here where I am cast, 
Such visions may not last, 
By sterner fancies quelled : 
Relentless Nemesis my doom hath sent — 
This cruel banishment ! 



LOST AT SEA. 

A fleet set sail upon a summer sea: 

'Tis now so long ago, 
I look no more to see my ships come home; 
But in that fleet sailed all 'twas dear to me. 

Ships never bore such precious freight as these, 

Please God, to any woe. 
His world is wide, and they may ride the foam, 
Secure from danger, in some unknown seas. 

But they have left me bankrupt on life's 'change; 

And daily I bestow 
Regretful tears upon the blank account. 
And with myself my losses rearrange. 

Oh, mystic wind of fate, dost hold my dower 

Where I may never know ? 
Of all my treasure ventured what amount 
"Will the sea send me in my parting hour ! 



276 'T WAS JUNE, NOT I. 



'TWAS JUNE, NOT I. 

"Come out into the garden, Maud;" 

In whispered tones young Percy said : 
He but repeated what he'd read 

That afternoon, with soft applaud: 

A snatch, which for my same name's sake, 
He caught, out of the sweet, soft song, 

A lover for his love did make. 

In half despite of some fond wrong: — 

And more he quoted, just to show 
How still the rhymes ran in his head, 
With visions of the roses red 

That on the poet's pen did grow. 

The jjoet's spell was on our blood; 

The spell of June was in the air; 
We felt, more than we understood, 

The charm of being young and fair. 
Where everything is fair and young — 

As on June eves doth fitl}^ seem: 
The Earth herself lies in among 

The misty, azure fields of space, 
A bride, whose startled blushes glow 

Less flame-like through the shrouds of lace 
That sweeter all her beauties show. 

We walked and talked beneath the trees — 
Bird-haunted, flowering trees of June — 
The roses purpled in the moon; 
We breathed their fragrance on the breeze — 
Young Percy's voice is tuned to clear 
Deep tones, as if his heart were deep: 
This night it fluttered on my ear 
As young birds flutter in their sleep. 
My own voice faltered when I said 



'T WAS JUNE, NOT I. 277 

How very sweet sucli hours must be 

With oue we love. At that word he 

Shook like the aspen overhead : 

"Must be! " he drew me from the shade, 

To read my face to show his own : 

" Say are, dear Maud! " — my tongue was stayed; 

M}' i^liant limbs seemed turned to stone. 

He held my hands I could not move — 
The nerveless palms together prest — 
And clasped them tightly to his breast; 
While in my heart the question strove. 
The fire-flies flashed like wandering stars — 
I thought some sprang from out his eyes: 
Surely some spirit makes or mars 
At will our earthly destinies! 
" Speak, Maud! " — at length I turned away: 
He must have thought it woman's fear; 
For, whispering softly in my ear 
Such gentle thanks as might allay 
Love's tender shame; left on my brow, 
And on each hand, a warm light kiss — 
I feel them burn there even now — 
But all my fetters fell at this. 

I spoke like an injured queen: 

It's our own defence when we're surprised — 

The way our weakness is disguised; 

I said things that I could not mean. 

Or ought not — since it was a lie 

That love had not been in my mind: 

'T was in the air I breathed; the sky 

Shone love, and murmured it the wind. 

It had absorbed my soul with bliss; 

My blood ran love in every vein, 

And to have been beloved again 



278 'T ir.-l.S- JUNE, NOT I. 

Were heavenly ! — so I thought till this 
Unlooked for answer to the prayer 
IMy heart was malcing with its might. 
Thus challenged, caught in sudden snare, 
Like two clouds meeting on a height. 
And, pausing first in short strange lull, 
Then bursting into awful storm. 
Opposing feelings multiform, 
Struggled in silence: and then full 
Of our blind woman- wrath, broke forth 
In stinging hail of sharp-edged ice, 
As freezing as the polar north. 
Yet maddening. O, the poor mean vice 
AVe women have been taught to call 
By virtue's name! the holy scorn 
We feel for lovers left love-lorn 

By our own coldness, or by the wall 
Of other love 'twixt them and us! 

The tempest past, I paused. He stood 
Silent, — and j'et " Ungenerous! " 
Was hurled back, plainer than ere could 
His lips have said it, by his eyes 

Fire-flashing, and his pale, set face. 

Beautiful, and unmarred by trace 
Of aught save pain and pained surprise. 
— I quailed at last before that gaze. 

And even faintly owned my wrong: 
I said I " spoke in such amaze 

I could not choose words that belong 
To such occasions." Here he smiled, 

To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh : 

" June eves disturb us differently," 
He said, at length; " and I, beguiled 
By something in the air, did do 

My Lady Maud unmeant offence; 



T WAS JUNE, NOT I. 279 

And, what is stranger far, she too. 
Under the halef nl influence 
of this fair heaven " — he raised his eyes, 
And gestured proudly toward the stars — 
" Has done me wrong. "Wrong, lady, mars 
God's purpose, written on these skies, 
Painted and uttered in this scene : 
Acknowledged in each secret heart; 
We both are wrong, you say; 'twould mean 
That we too should be wide apart — 
And so, adieu !" — with this he went. 

I sat down whitening in tLe moon, 

With heat as of a desert noon. 

Sending its fever vehement 

Across mj' brow, and through my frame — 

The fever of a wild regret — 

A vain regret without a name. 

In which both love and loathing met. 

"Was this the same enchanted air 
I breathed one little hour ago? 
Did all these purple roses blow 
But yestermorn, so sweet, so fair? 
Was it this eve that some one said 
" Come out into the garden, Maud?" 
And while the sleepy birds o'erhead 
Chii'ped out to know who walked abroad, 
Did we admire the plumey flowers 
On the wide-branched catalpa trees. 
And locusts, scenting all the breeze; 
And call the balm-trees our bird-towers? 
Did we recall the " black bat Night," 
That flew before young Maud walked forth — 
And say this Night's wings were too bright 
For bats' — being feathered, from its birth, 



280 'T WA^ JUNE, NOT I. 

Like butterflies' with powdered gold : 
Still talking on, from gay to grave, 
And trembling lest some sudden wave 
Of the soul's deep, grown over-bold. 
Should sweep the barriers of reserve. 
And whelm us in tumultuous floods 
Of unknown power? What did unnerve 
Our frames, as if we walked with gods? 
Unless they, meaning to destroy. 
Had made us mad with a false heaven, 
Or drunk with wine and hone}' given 
Onl}^ for immortals to enjoy. 

Alas, I onl3' knew that late 

I'd seemed in an enchanted sphere; 

That now I felt the web of fate 

Close round me, with a mortal fear. 

If only once the gods invite 

To banquets that are crowned with roses; 

After which the celestial closes 

Are barred to us; if in despite 

Of such high favor, arrogant 

We blindly choose to bide our time. 

Rejecting Heaven's — and ignorant 

What we have spurned, attempt to climb 

To heavenly places at our will — 

Finding no path thereto but one. 

Nemesis-guarded, where atone 

To heaven, all such as hopeful still, 

Press toward the mount, — yet find it strewn 

With corses, perished b}' the way. 

Of those who Fate did importune 

Too rashly, or her will gainsay. 

If /have been thrust out from heaven, 

This night, for insolent disdain, 

Of putting a young god in pain, 



LIXES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD. 281 

How shall I hope to be forgiveu ? 
Yet let me not be judged as one 
Who mocks at an}' high behest; 
My fault being that I kept the throne 
Of a Jove vacant in m}' breast, 
And. when Apollo claimed the place 
I was too loyal to my Jove; 
Unmindful how the masks of love 
Transfigure all things to our face. 

Ah, well! if I have lost to fate 
The greatest boon that heaven disposes; 
And closed upon myself the gate 
To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses, 
On this intoxicating air. 
The witching influence of the moon. 
The poet's rhymes that went in tune 
To the night's voices low and rare; 
To all, that goes to make such hours 
Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy. 
With contrary fate-compelling power. 
The intended bliss; — 'twas June, not I. 



LINES TO A LUJMP OF VIRGIN GOLD. 

Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless — 

With less of radiance than the burnished tress. 

Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold. 

Kneaded together with the common mold! 

Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges 

Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges; 

Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast 

From man's desire and quest — 

Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery 

That shrines thy history ! 



282 LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD. 

Yet 'tis of little consequence, 

Today, to know how thou wert made, or whence 

Earthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here, 

At once the master that men love and fear — 

"Whom they have sought by many strange devices. 

In ancient river-beds; in interstices 

Of hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand. 

Where curls the tawny sand 

By mountain torrents hurried to the main, 

And thence hurled back again : — 

Yes, suffered, dared, and patiently 
Offered up everything, O gold, to thee! — 
Home, wife and children, native soil, and all 
That once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call; 
Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted; 
Wearied for months at sea — yet ever paiuted 
Thee as the shining Mecca, that to gain 
Invalidated pain, 

Cured the sick soul — made nugatory evil 
Of man or devil. 

Alas, and well-a-day! we know 

What idle dreams were these that fooled men so. 

On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves. 

To which they went untended, the poor slaves 

Of fruitless toil; the victims of a fever 

Called home-sickness — no remedy found ever; 

Or slain by vices that grow rankly where 

Men madly do and dare. 

In alternations of high hope and deep abysses 

Of recklessnesses. 

Painfully, and by violence: 

Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whence 
Nature had hidden thee — whose face is worn 
With anxious furrows, and her bosom torn 



LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD. 283 

In the hard strife — and ever yet there lingers 

Upon these hills work for the " effacing fingers" 

Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem 

A half forgotten dream; 

"Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together. 

By touch of wind and weather. 

Thou heavy, lustreless, dull clod! 

Digged from the earth like a base common sod; 

I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold 

The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold! 

Yet do I sadly own thy fascination. 

And would I gladly show my estimation 

By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come 

And cumber up my home; — 

I'd even promise not to call attention 

To these things that I mention ! 

" The King can do no wrong," and thou 
Art King indeed to most of us, I trow. 
Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovreign will 
All that there is of progress, learning, skill. 
Of beauty, culture, grace — and I might even 
Include religion, though that flouts at heaven — 
Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss; — 
And 3'et men call thee dross ! 
If thou art dross then I mistaken be 
Of thy identity. 

Ah, solid, Aveighty, beautiful! 
How could I first have said that thou wert dull ? 
How could have wondered that men willingly 
Gave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee ? 
Theirs was the martyrdom in which Avas planted 
A glorious State, by precious memories haunted: 
Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, the fame 
Of an exalted name : 



284 • MAGDALEN A. 

Theirs Avas the struggle of a proud ambition — 
Ours is the full fruition. 

Thou, yellow nugget, wert the star 

That drew these willing votaries from afar, 

'Twere wrong to call thee lustreless or base 

That lightest onward all the human race, 

Emblem art thou, in every song or story, 

Of highest excellence and brightest glory: 

Thou crown'st the angels, and enthronest Him 

Who made the cherubim : 

My reverend thought indeed is not withholden, 

nugget golden ! 



MAGDALENA. 



You say there's a Being all-loving, 

Whose nature is justice and pity; 
Could you say where 3'ou think he is roving ? 

We have sought him from city to city, 
But he never is where we can find him, 

When outrage and sorrow beset us; 
It is strange we are always behind him, 

Or that He should forever forget us. 

But being a god, he is thinking 

Of the masculine side of the Human; 
And though just, it would surely be sinking 

The God to be thoughtful for woman. 
For him and by him was man made: 

Sole heir of the earth and its treasures; 
An after-thought, woman — the handmaid, 

Not of God, but of man and his pleasures. 

Should you say that man's God would reprove us. 
If we found him and showed him our bruises ? 



MAGDALENA. 285 

It is dreary with no one to love us, 

Or to bold back the hand that abuses: 
Man's hand, that fii'st led and caressed us, 

Man's lips, that first kissed and betrayed; — 
If his Grod could know how he's oppressed us, 

Do you think that we need be afraid ? 

For we loved him — and he who stood nearest 

To God, who could doubt or disdain '? 
When he swore by that God, and the dearest 

Of boons that he hojDed to obtain 
Of that God, that he truly would keep us 

In his heart of hearts precious and only: 
Say, how could we think he would steep us 

In sorrow, and leave us thus lonely ? 

But you see how it is: he has left us, 

This demi-god, heir of creation; 
Of our only good gifts has bereft us. 

And mocked at our mad desolation : 
Saj^s that we knew^ that such oaths would be broken — 

Says we lured him to lie and betra}^; 
Quotes the word of his God as a token 

Of the law that makes woman his prey. 

And now what shall we do ? We have given 
To this master our handmaiden's dower: 

Our beauty and youth, aye, and even 
Our souls have we left in his power. 

Though we thought when we loved him, that loving- 
Made of woman an angel, not demon; 

We have found, to our fond faith's disproving. 
That love makes of Avoman a leman ! 

Yes, we gave, and he took: took not merely 

What we gave, for his lying pretences: 
But our whole woman world, that so dearly 



28G MAGDALENA. 

"We held by till then: our defences 
Of home, of fair fame; the affection 

Of parents and kindred; the human 
Delight of child-love; the protection 

That is everywhere owed to a woman. 

You say there's a Being all-loving, 

Whose nature is j ustice and pity : 
Could you say where you think he is roving? 

"We have sought him from city to city. 
"V^^'e have called unto him, our eyes streaming 

"With the tears of our pain and despair: 
We have shouted unto him blaspheming, 

And whispered unto him in prayer. 

But he sleeps, or is absent, or lending 

His ear to man's prouder petition: 
And the black silence over us bending 

Scorches hot with the breath of perdition. 
For this fair Avorld of man's, in which woman 

Pays for all that she gets with her beauty, 
Is a desert that starves out the human. 

When her charms charm not squarely with duty. 

For man were we made, says the preacher. 

To love him and serve him in meekness. 
Of man's God is man solely the teacher 

Interpreting unto our "weakness: 
He the teacher, the master, dispenser 

Not only of law, but of living. 
Breaks his own law with us, then turns censor, 

Accusing, but never forgiving. 

Do you think that we have not been nursing 
llesentment for wrong and betrayal? 

From our hearts, filled with gall, rises cursing. 
To our own and our masters' dismayal. 






MAGDALENA. 287 

T is for this that we seek the all-loving, 

Whose nature is justice and pity; 
And we'll find Him, wherever he 's roving, 

In country, in town, or in city. 

He must show us his justice, who made us; 

He must place sin where sin was conceived; 
We must know if man's God will upbraid us 

Because we both loved and believed. 
We must know if man's riches and power. 

His titles, crowns, sceptres and ermine. 
Weigh with God against womanhood's dower. 

Or whether man's guilt they determine. 

It would seem that man's God should restrain him. 

Or else should avenge our dishonor: 
Shall the cries of the hopeless not pain him, 

Or shall woman take all guilt upon her ? 
Let us challenge the maker that made us; 

Let us cry to Christ, son of a woman; 
We shall learn if, when man has betrayed us. 

Heaven's justice accords with the human. 

We must know if because we were lowly. 

And kejit in the place man assigned us. 
He could seek us with passions unholy 

And be free, while his penalties bind us. 
We would ask if his gold buys exemption. 

Or whether his manhood acquits him ; 
How it is that we scarce find redemption 

For sins less than his self-law permits him. 

Do we dare the Almighty to question ? 

Shall the clay to the potter appeal ? 
To whom else shall we go with suggestion ? 

Shall the vase not complain to the wheel ? 
God answered Job out of the groaning 



288 MAGDALENA. 

Of tlinncler find wliirhviml and hailing; 
Will lie turn a deaf ear to our moaning, 
Or reply to our prayers with railing ? 

Did you speak of a Christ who is tender — 

A deity born of a woman ? 
Of the sorrowful, God and defender, 

And brother and friend of the human? 
Long ago He ascended to heaven, 

Long ago was His teaching forgotten; 
The lump has no longer the leaven, 

But is heavy, unwholesome and rotten. 

The gods are all man's, whom he praises 

For laws that make woman his creature; 
For the rest, theological mazes 

Furnish work for the salaried preacher. 
In the youth of the world it was better. 

We had deities then of our choosing; 
We could pray, though we wore then a fetter. 

To a Goddess of binding and loosing. 

We could kneel in a grove or a temple, 

No man's heavy hand on our shoulder: 
Had in Pallas Athene examjole 

To make womanhood stronger and bolder. 
But the temples are broken and plundered. 

Sacred altars profanely o'erthrown; 
Where the oracle trembled and thundered, 

Are a cavern, a fount, and a stone. 

Yet we would of the Christ hear the story, 

'Twas familiar in days that are ended; 
His humility, purity, gloiy, 

Are they not into heaven ascended ? 
We see naught but scorning and hating; 

We hear naught but threats and contemning: 
For your Christian is good and berating, 

And your sinner is first in condemning. 



REPOSE. 289 

Should 3-011 say that the Christ would reprove us, 

If we found him and told him our trouble ? 
It is fearful with no one to love us, 

And our pain and despair growing double. 
It is mad'ning to feel we're excluded 

From the homes of the mothers that bore us; 
And that man, by no false arts deluded, 

May enter unchallenged before us. 

It is hard to be humble when trodden; 

We cannot be meek when oj)pressed; 
Nor pure while our souls are made sodden 

With loathing that can't be confessed; 
Or true, while our bread and our shelter 

By a lying pretence is obtained — 
Deceived, in deception we welter; 

B}' a touch are we evermore stained. 

O hard lot of woman ! the creature 

Of a creature whose Grod is asleej?, 
Or gone on a journey. You teach her 

She was made to sin, sufter, and weep; 
We wait for a new revelation. 

We cry for a God of our own; 
O God unrevealed, bring salvation, 

From our necks lift the collar of stone ! 



REPOSE, 



I lay me down straight, with closed eyes, 

And pale hands folded across my breast, 
Thinking, uupained, of the sad surprise 

Of those who shall find me thus fall'n to rest; 
And the grief in their looks when they learn no endeavor. 
Can disturb my rej^ose — for my sleep is forever. 
19 



290 REPOSE. 

I know that a smile will lie bid in my eyes, 

Even a soft throb of joy stir the pulse in ray breast, 

When they sit down to mourniiig, with tears and with sighs, 
And shudder at death, which to me is but rest. 

So sweet to be parted at once from our pain; 

To put off our care as a robe that is worn ; 
To drop like a link broken out of a chain. 

And be lost in the sands by Time's tide overborne : 
And to know at my loss all the wildest regretting. 
Will be as a foot-print, washed out in forgetting. 
To be certain of this — that my faults ]3erish first; 

That Avhen they behold me so calmly asleep, 
They can but forgive me my errors at worst. 

And speak of my praises alone as they weep. 

" Whom the gods love die young," they Avill say; 

Though they should think it, they will not say so: 
"Whom the world pierces with thorns pass away. 

Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!" 
No, when they see how divine my repose is, 
They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses; 
And they'll whisper together, with bauds full of fiowers. 

How always I loved them to wear on my breast; 
And strewing them over my bosom in showers. 

With bauds shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest. 

There is one who will come when the rest are away; 

One bud of a rose will be bring for my hair; 
He knows bow I liked it, worn always that way, 

And his fingers will tremble while placing it there. 
Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes, 
When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses; 
He'll remember the flush on the sk}"- and the flowers. 

And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest; 
But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours. 

Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly- I'll rest. 



ASPASTA. 291 

So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain, 

That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose, 
Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain. 

And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes: 
They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done. 
Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone; 
They'll remember I loved them, Avas faithful and true; 

They'll not sa}' what a wild will abode in my breast; 
But rej)eat to each other, as if they were new. 

Old stories of what did the loved one at rest. 

Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream, 

The terror of waking comes back to my heart; 
Why is it not as I thus make it seem ? 

Must I come back to the world, ere we part? 
Deep was the swoon of my spirit — why break it? 
Why bring me back to the struggles that shake it ? 
Alas, there is room on my feet for fresh bruises — 

The flowers are not dead on my brow or my breast — 
When shall I learn " sweet adversity's uses," 

And my tantalized spirit be truly at rest! 



ASPASIA. 



O, ye Athenians, drunken with self-praise, 

What dreams I had of you, beside the sea, 
In far Milentus! while the golden days 

Slid into silver nights, so sweet to me; 
For then I dreamed my day-dreams sweetly o'er. 

Fancying the touch of Pallas on my brow — 
Libations of both heart and wine did pour. 

And offered up my being with my vow. 

'Twas thus to Athens my heart drew at last 
My life, my soul, myself. Ah, well, I learn 



292 ASP ASIA. 

To love and loathe the bonds that hold me fast, 
Your captive and your conquerer in turn; 

Am I not shamed to match my charms with those 
Of fair boy-beauties? gentled for your love 

To match the freshness of the morning rose, 
And lisp in murmurs like the cooing dove, 

O, men of Athens! by the purple sea 

In far Miletus, when I dreamed of 3'ou, 
Watching the winged ships that invited me 

To follow their white track upon the blue; 
'T was the desire to mate my lofty soul 

That drew me ever like a viewless chain 
Toward Homer's laud of heroes, 'til I stole 

Away from home and dreams, to you and pain. 

I brought you beaut}^ — but your boys invade 

My woman's realm of love with girlish airs. 
I brought high gifts, and powers to persuade. 

To charm, to teach, with your philosophers. 
But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold; 

And I who am your equal am cast down 
Level with those who sell themselves for gold — 

A crownless queen — a woman of the town! 

Ye vain Athenians, know this, that I 

By your hard laws am only made more free; 
Your unloved dames may sit at home and cry, 

But, being unwed, I meet you openl}-, 
A foreigner, you cannot W'ed with me; 

But I can win your hearts and sway your will. 
And make your free wives envious to see 

What power Aspasia wields, Milesian still. 

Who would not be beloved of Pericles? 

I could have had all Athens at my feet; 
And have them for my flatterers, when I please; 



ASP ASIA. 293 

Yet, one great man's great love is far more sweet! 
He is my proper mate as I am his — 

You see my young dreams were not all in vain — 
And I have tasted of ineffable bliss, 

If I am stung at times with fiery pain. 

It is not that I long to be a wife 

By your Athenian laws, and sit at home 
Behind a lattice, prisoner for life, 

AVith xnj lord left at liberty to roam; 
Nor is it that I crave the right to be 

At the symposium or the Agora known ; 
My grievance is, that 3'our proud dames to me 

Came to be taught, in secret and alone. 
They fear; what do they fear? is't me or you ? 

Am I not pure as any of them all? 
But your laws are against me; and 'tis true, 

If fame is lowering, I have had a fall ! 
O, selfish men of Athens, shall the world 

Remember you, and pass my glory by? 
Nay, 'til from their jjroud heights your names are hurled. 

Mine shall blaze with them on 3'our Grecian sky. 

Am I then boastful? It is half in scorn 

Of caring for your love, or for your praise. 
As women do, and must. Had I been born 

In this proud Athens, I had spent my days 
In jealousy of boys, and stolen hours 

With some Milesian, of a questioned place, 
Learning of her the use of woman's powers 

Usurped by men of this patrician race. 

Alas! I would I were a child again. 

Steeped in dream langours by the purple sea; 

And Athens but the vision it was then. 

Its great men good, its noble women free: 

That I in some winged ship should strive to fly 



294 ASPASIA. 

To reach this goal, and founder and go down! 
O impious thought, how could I wish to die, 
AVitli all that I have felt aiid learned unknown? 

Nay, I am glad to be to future times 

As much Athenian as is Pericles; 
Proud to be named by men of other climes 

The friend and pupil of g-reat Socrates. 
What is the gossip of the city dames 

Behind their lattices to one like me ? 
More glorious than their high patrician names 

I hold my privilege of being free! 

And yet I would that they were free as I; 

It angers me that women are so weak, 
Looking askance when ere they pass me by 

Lest on a chance their lords should see us sjDeak; 
And coming next day to an audience 

In hojje of learning to resemble me : 
They wish, they tell me, to learn eloquence — 

The lesson they should learn is liberty. 

O Athens, city of the beautiful. 

Home of all art, all elegance, all grace; 
Whose orators and poets sway the soul 

As the winds move the sea's unstable face; 
O wonderous city, nurse and home of mind, 

This is my oracle to you this day — 
No generous groAvth from starved roots will you find, 

But fruitless blossoms weakening to decay. 

You take my meaning? Sappho is no more, 
And no more Sapphos will be, in your time; 

The tree is dead on one side that before 

Kan with such burning sap of love and rhyme. 

Your glorious city is the utmost flower 
Of a one-sided culture, that M'ill spend 



JSP ASIA. 295 

Itself upon itself, 'till, hour by hour, 
It runs its sources dr^', and so must end. 

That race is doomed, behind whose lattices 

Its once free women are constrained to peer 
Upon the world of men with vacant ej'es; 

It was not so in Homer's time, I hear. 
But Eastern slaves have eaten of your store, j 

Till in your homes all eating bread are slaves; 
They're built into your walls, beside your door, 

And bend beneath your lofty architraves. 

A woman of the race that looks upon 

The sculptured emblems of captivity, 
Shall bear a slave or tyrant for a son; 

And none shall know the worth of liberty. 
Am I seditious ? — Nay, then, I will keep 

My lesson for your dames when next they steal 
Qp tip-toe to an audience. Pray sleep 

Securely, and dream well: we wish your weal! 

"Why, what vain prattle : but my heart is sore 

With thinking on the emptiness of things. 
And these Athenians, treacherous to the core, 

Who hung on Pericles with flatterings. 
I would indeed I were a little child. 

Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sands 
In far Miletus, where the airs blow mild, 

And countless looms throb under busy hands. 

The busy hand must calm the busy thought, 

And labor cool the passions of the hour; 
To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought. 

What signifies the party last in power? 
But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophers 

Who reason on the nature of the soul; 
And all the vain array of orators, 

Who strove to hold the people in control. 



296 A UEPRIMAND. 

Between the poets, artists, critics, all, 

"Who form a faction or who found a school. 
We weave Penelope's web with hearts of gall, 

And my poor brain is oft the weary tool. 
Yet do I choose this life. What is to me 

Peace or good fame, away from all of these. 
But living death ? I do choose liberty. 

And leave to Athens' dames their soulless ease. 

The time shall come, when Athens is no more. 

And you and all your gods have jjassed away; 
That other men, upon another shore, 

Shall from yoiir errors learn a better way. 
To them eternal justice will reveal 

Eternal truth, and in its better light 
All that your legal falsehoods now conceal, 

Will stand forth clearly in the whole world's sight. 



A REPRIMAND. 



Behold my soul ? She sits so far above you 

Your wildest dream has never glanced so high ; 
Yet in the old-time when you said, " I love you," 

How fairly we were mated, eye to eye. 
How long we dallied on in flowery meadows, 

By languid lakes of purely sensuous dreams. 
Steeped in enchanted mists, beguiled by shadows, 

Casting sweet flowers upon loitering streams. 
My memory owns, and yours; mine with deep shame, 

Yours with a sigh that life is not the same. 

What parted us, to leave yoii in the valley 

And send me struggling to the uiountuin-top ? 

Too weak for duty, even love failed to rally 
The manhood that should float your pinions up. 



TO MRS. : 297 

On my spent feet are many half-healed bruises, 
My limbs are wasted with their heavy toil, 

But I have learned adversity's " sweet uses," 

And brought m}^ soul up pure through every soil; 

Have I no right to scorn the man's dead power 
That leaves you far below me at this hour ? 

Scorn you I do, while pitying even more 

The ignoble weakness of a strength debased. 
Do I yet mourn the faith that died of yore — 

The trust by timorous treachery effaced ? 
Through all, and over all, my soul mounts free 

To heights of peace you cannot hope to gain. 
Sings to the stars its mountain minstrelsy. 

And smiles down proudly on 3'our murky plain; 
'Tis vain to invite you — 3'et come up, come up, 

Conquer your way toward the mountain-top ! 



TO MRS. 



I cannot find the meaning out 

That lies in wrong and pain and strife; 

I know not why we grope through grief. 
Tear-blind, to touch the higher life. 

I see the world so subtly fair. 

My heart with beauty often aches; 

But ere I quiet this sweet pain, 

Some cross so presses, the heart breaks. 

To-day, this lovely golden day, 

When heaven and earth are steeped in calm; 
When every lightest air that blows. 

Sheds its delicious freight of balm. 



298 TO MRS. . 

If I but ope my lips, I sob; 

If but an ej'elid lift, I weep; 
I deprecate all good or ill, 

And only Avisli for endless sleep. 

For \\\\o, I ask, has set my feet 

In all these dark and troubled ways? 

And who denies my soul's desire, 

When with its might it cries and prays ? 

In my unconscious veins there runs 
Perchance, some old ancestral taint; 

In Eve /sinned: poor Eve and I! 
We each may utter one complaint: — 

One and the same — for knowledge came 
Too late to save her paradise; 

And I my paradise have lost; 
Forsooth because I am not wise. 

O vain traditions! small the aid 
We women gather from your lore: 

Wh3% when the world was lost, did death 
Not come our children's birth before? 

It had been better to have died, 
Sole pre}'' of death, and ended so; 

Thau to have draggetT through endless time. 
One long, unbroken trail of woe. 

To suffer, yet not expiate; 

To die at last, yet not atone; 
To mourn our heirship to a guilt, 

Erased b}' innocent blood alone! 

You lift your hands in shocked surjnise; 

You siiy enough I have not prayed : 
Can jDrayer go back through centuries, 

And change the web of fate one braid ? 



MOONLIGHT MEMORIES. 299 

Nay, own the truth, and say that we 
Are but the bonded slaves of doom; 

Unconscious to the cradle came, 
Unwilling must go to the tomb. 

Your woman's hands are void of help. 

Though my soul should be stung to death; 

Could I avert one pang from you, 
Inij)loring with my latest breath ? 

And men! — we sutler any wx'ong 

That men, or mad, or blind, may do; — 

Let me alone in my despair! 
There is no help for me or you. 

I wait to find the meaning out 

That lies beyond the bitter end; 
Comfort yourself with 'wearying heaven, 

I ask no comfort, oh my friend ! 



]\I O O N L I G H T ]\I E M O R I E S. 

Do thy chamber Avindows open east. 

Beloved, as did ours of old ? 
And do 3-011 stand when day has ceased, 

Withdrawn thro' evening's porch of gold. 
And watch the pink flush fade above 

The hills on which the wan moon leans, 
Remembering the sweet girlish love 

That blest this hour in other scenes! 

I see your hand upon your heart — 
I see you dash away the tears — 

It is the same undying smart. 

That touched us in the long-gone years; 

And cannot pass away. You stand 



•JOO MOONLIGHT MEMORIES. 

Your forehead to the Avindow crest. 
And stifle sobs that no command 
Can keep from rising in your breast. 

Dear, balm is not for griefs like ours, 

Xor resurrection for dead lio2)e: 
In vain we cover wounds with flowers, 

That grow upon life's western slope. 
Their leaves tho' bright, are hard, and dry, 

They have no soft and healing dew; 
The pansies of past spring-times lie 

Dead in the shadow of the yew. 

You feel this in your heart, and turn 

To pace the dimness of your room; 
But lo, like fire within an urn. 

The moonlight glows through all the gloom. 
It sooths you like a living touch. 

And spite of the slow-falling tears. 
Sweet memories crowd with oh, so much, 

Of all that girlhood's time endears. 

On nights like this, with such a moon, 

Full shining in a wintry sky; 
Or on the softer nights of June, 

"When fleecy clouds fled thought-like by, 
"NVithin our chamber opening east, 

With curtains from the window parted, 
AVith hands and cheeks together prest, 

We dreamed youth's glowing dreams, light-hearted. 

Or talked of that mysterious love 

That comes like fate to every soul: 
And vowed to hold our lives above, 

Perchance its sorrowful control. 
Alas, the vexy vow we made, 

To keep our lives from passion free, 
To wiser hearts well had betrayed 

Some future love's intensity. 



VERSES FOB IT . 301 

How well that youthful vow was kept, 

Is written on a deathless page — 
Vain all regrets, vain tears we've wept, 

The record lives from age to age. 
But one who " doeth all things well," 

AVho made us differ from the throng, 
Has it within his heart to quell 

This torturing pain of thirst, ere long. 

And you, whose soul is all aglow 

With fire Prometheus brought from heaven, 
Shall in some future surely know 

Joys for which high desires are given. 
Not always in a restless pain 

Shall beat your heart, or throb your brow; 
Not alwa^'S shall you sigh in vain 

For hoj^e's fruition, hidden now. 

Beloved, are your tear-drops dried? 

The moon is riding high above : — 
Though each from other's parted wide, 

We have not parted early love. 
And tho' you never are forgot. 

The moonrise in the east shall be 
The token that my evening thought 

Returns to home, and love and thee! 



VERSES FOR M 



The river on the east 
Ripples its azure flood w^ithin my sight; 

And, darting from the west, 
Are " sunset arrows," feathered with red light. 

The northern breeze has hung 
His wintr}- harp upon some giant j)ine; 



302 VERSES FOR M . 

And the pale stars among", 
I see the star I love to name as mine: 

But toward the south I turn my eager eyes — 
Beyond its flusbed horizon my heart lies. 

The snow-clad isles of ice, 
Launched by wild Boreas from a northern shore, 

Journey the way my ej'es 
Turn with an envious longing evermore — 

Smiling back to the sky 
Its own pink blush, and, iioating out of sight, 

Bear south the softest dye 
Of northern heavens, to fade in southern night: — 

My ej-es but look the way my joys are gone, 

And the ice-islands travel not alone. 

The untrod fields of snow, 
Glow wdth the rosy blush of parting day; 

And fancy asks if so 
The snow is stained with sunset far away; 

And if some face, like mine. 
Its forehead pressed against the window-pane, 

Peers northward, with the shine 
Of the pole-star reflected in eyes' rain : 

"Ah yes," my heart says, "it is surely so;" 

And, like a bound bird, flutters hard to go. 

Sad eyes, that, blurred with tears. 
Gaze into darkness, gaze no more in vain 

Whence no loved face appears, 
And no voice comes to lull the heart's fond j^ain! 

Sad heart! restrain thy throbs, 
For beauty, like a presence out of heaven, 

Rests over all, and robs 
Sorrow of pain, and makes eai'th seem forgiven: — 

Twilight the fair eve ushers in with grace, 

And rose clouds melt for stars to take their place. 



AUTUMNALIA. 303 



AUTUMNAL! A. 

The crimson color laj^s 
As bright as beauty's blush along the West; 

And a warm golden haze, 
Promising sheafs of rij)e Autumnal days 

To crown the old year's crest. 
Hangs in mid air, a half -pell acid maze, 

Through which the sun at set. 
Grown round and rosy, looks with Bacchian blush. 

For an old wine-god meet — 
Whose brows are dripping with the grape-blood sweet. 

As if his southern flush 
Rejoiced him, in his northern-zone retreat. 

The amber-colored air 
Musical is with hum of tiny things 

Held idly, struggling there, 
As if the golden mist entangled were 

About the viewless wings. 
That beat out music on their gilded snare. 

If but a leaf, all gay 
With Autumn's gorgeous coloring, doth fall. 

Along its fluttering way 
A shrill alarum wakes a sharp dismay. 

And, answering to the call, 
The insect chorus swells and dies away 

With a fine piping noise. 
As if some younger singing notes cried out, 

As do mischievous boys — 
Startling their playmates with a pained voice. 

Or sudden thrilling shout. 
Followed by laughters, full of little joys. 



304 AUTUMNAL/A. 

Perchance a lurking breeze 
Springs, just awakened to its wayward play, 

Tossing the sober trees 
Into a frolic maze of ecstasies, 

And snatching at the gay 
Banners of Autumn, strews them where it please. 

The sunset colors glow 
A second time in flame from out the wood, 

As bright and warm as though 
The vanished clouds had fallen, and lodged below 

Among the tree-tops, hued 
With all the coloi's of heaven's signal-bow. 

The fitful breezes die 
Into a gentle whisper, and then sleep; 

And sweetly, mournfully, 
Starting to sight, in the transparent sky, 

Lone in the upper deep. 
Sad Hesper pours its beams upon the eye; 

And for one little hour, 
Holds audience with the lesser lights of heaven; 

Then to its western bower 
Descends in sudden darkness, as the flower 

That at the fall of Even 
Shuts its bright eye, and yields to slumber's power. 

Soon, with a dusky face. 
Pensive and proud as an East Indian queen. 

And with a solemn grace. 
The moon ascends, and takes her royal place 

In the fair evening scene; 
While all the reverential stars, apace, 
Take up their march through the cool fields of space. 
And dead is the sweet Autumn day whose close we've seen. 



PALO SANTO. 305 



PALO SANTO. 

In the deei3 woods of Mexico, 

Where screams the "painted paraquet," 
And mocking-birds flit to and fro, 

With borrowed notes they half forget; 
Where brilliant flowers and jDoisonous vines 

Are mingled in a firm embrace. 
And the same gaudy plant entwines 

Some reptile of a poisonous race; 
Where spreads the Itos' icy shade. 

Benumbing, even in summer's heat. 
The thoughtless traveler who hath laid 

Himself to noonday slumbers sweet; — 
Where skulks unseen the beast of prey — 
The native robber glares and hides, — 

And treacherous death keeps watch alway 
On him who flies, or he who bides. 

In these deep tropic woods there grows 
A tree, whose tall and silvery bole 

Above the dusky forest shows, 

As shining as a saintly soul 
Among the souls of sinful men; — 
Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven. 

And breathing incense out, as when 

The passing saints of earth are shriven. 

The skulking robber drops his eyes. 

And signs himself with holy cross. 
If, far between him and the skies. 

He sees its pearly blossoms toss. 
The wanderer halts to gaze upon 

The lovely vision, far or near. 
And smiles and sighs to think of one 

He wishes for the moment here. 
20 



306 A SUMMER DAY. 

The Mexic native fears not fang 

Of poisonous serpent, vine, nor bee. 

If he may soothe the baleful pang 
With juices of this " holy tree." 

How do Ave all, in life's wild ways, 
"Which oft we traverse lost and lone. 

Need that Avhich heavenward draAvs the gaze. 
Some Falo Santo of our own ! 



A SUMMER DAY. 

Fade not, sweet day! 

Another hour like this — 

So full of tranquil bliss — 

Ma}^ never come my Avay, 
I walk in paths so shadoAved and so cold : 

But stay thou, darling hour, 

Nor stint thy gracious power 
To smile aAvay the clouds that me enfold: 

Oh stay! when thou art gone, 

I shall be lost and lone. 

Lost, lone, and sad; 

And troubled more and more. 

By the dark Avays, and sore. 

In which my feet are led; — 
Alas, my heart, it Avas not ahvays so! 

Therefore, O happy da}^ 

Haste not to fade aAvaj', 
Nor let pale night chill all thy tender gloAA-- 

Thy rosy mists, that steep 

The violet hills in sleep — 



A SUMMER DAY. 307 

Tby airs of gold, 

That over all the plain, 

And fields of ripened grain, 

A shimmering glory hold, — 
The soft fatigue-dress of the drowsy sun; 

Dreaming, as one who goes 

To peace, and sweet repose, 
After a battle hardly fought, and won: 

Even so, my heart, to-day, 

Dream all thy fears away. 

O happy tears, 

That everywhere I gpze. 

Jewel the golden maze, 

Flow on, till earth appears 
"Worthy the soft perfection of this scene : 

Beat, heart, more soft and low. 

Creep, hurrying blood, more slow: 
Waste not one throb, to lose me the serene, 

Deej), satisfying bliss 

Of such an hour as this ! 

How like our dream. 

Of that delightful rest 

God keepeth for the blest. 

This lovely peace doth seem; — 
Perchance, my heart, He sent this gracious day, 

That when the dark and cold, 

Tb}' doubtful steps enfold. 
Thou may'st remember, and press on thy way. 

Nor faint midway the gloom 

That lies this side the tomb. 

All, all in vain. 

Sweet day, do I entreat 

To stay thy winged feet; 

The gloom, the cold, the pain, 



308 WILD NOVEMBER WIND. 

Gather me back as thou dost pale and fade; 

Yet iu my heart I make 

A chamber for thy sake, 
And keep thy picture in warm color laid : — 

Thy memory, happy day, 

Thou can'st not take away. 



HE AND SHE. 



Under the pines sat a young man and maiden, 
"Love," said he; " life is sweet, think'st thou not so?" 
Sweet were her eyes, full of pictures of Aidenn, — 
" Life?" said she; " love is sweet; no more I know." 

Into the wide world the maid and her lover 
Wandered hj pathways that sundered them far; 
From pine-groves to palm-groves, he flitted a rover. 
She tended his roses, and watched for his star. 

Oft he said softly, while melting eyes glistened, 
" Sweet is my life, love, with you ever near:" 
Morning and evening she waited and listened 
For a voice and a foot-step that never came near. 

Fainting at last, on her threshold she found him : 
" Life is but ashes, and bitter," he sighed. 
She, with her tender arms folded around him, 
Whispered — "But love is still sweet;" and so died. 



O WILD NOVEMBER WIND. 

O wild November wind, blow back to me 

The withered leaves, that drift adown the past; 

Waft me some murmur of the summer sea. 

On which youth's faii'y fleet of dreams was cast; 



BY THE SEA. 309 

Keturn to me tlie beautiful No More — 
O wild November wind, restore, restore! 

November wind, in what dim, loathsome cave, 
Languish the tender-plumed gales of spring ? 

No more their dances dimple o'er the wave, 

Nor freighted pinions song and perfume bring: 

Those gales are dead— that dimpling sea is dark; 
And cloudy ghosts clutch at each mist-like bark. 

O wild, wild Avind, where are the summer airs 

That kissed the roses of the long-ago ? 
Taking them captive — swooned in blissful snares — 

To let them perish. Now no roses blow 
In the waste gardens thou art laying bare: 

Where are my heart's bright roses, where, oh where? 

Thou hast no answer, thou unpitying gale ? 

No gentle whisper from the past to me ! 
No snatches of sweet song — no tender tale — 

No happy ripple of that summer sea; 
Are all my dreams wrecked on the nevermore ? 

wild November wind, restore, restore! 



BY THE SEA. 



Blue is the mist on the mountains, 
White is the fog on the sea; 

Rubj^ and gold is the sunset, — 
And Bertha is waiting for me. 

Down on the loathsome sand-beach, 
Her eyes as blue as the mist; 

Her brows as white as the sea-fog, — 
Bertha, whose lips I have kissed. 



310 POLK COUNTY If ILLS. 

Bertha, whose lij^s are like rubies, 
Whose hair is like coiled ffold; 

"Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer 
Thau any legend of old. 

One morn, one noon, one sunset, 
Must pass before we meet; 

O wind and sail bear steady on, 
And bring me to her feet. 

The morn rose pale and sullen, 
The noon was still and dun; 

Across the storm at sunset, 

Came the boom of a signal-gun. 

"Who treads the loathsome sand-beach, 
"With wet, disordered hair; 

With garments tangled with sea-weed. 
And cheeks more joale than fair ? 

O blue-eyed, white-browed maiden, 
He will keej) love's tryst no more; 

His ship sailed safely into port — 
But on the heavenward shore. 



POLK COUNTY HILLS. 

November came that day, 

And all the air was gray 

"With delicate mists, blown down 
From hill-tops by the soutli wind's balmy breath ; 

And all the oaks were brown 

As Egypt's kings in death; 

The maple's croAvn of gold 

Laid tarnished on the wold; 
The alder and the ash, the aspen and the willow, 

"Wore tattered suits of yellow. 



POLK COUNTY HILLS. 311 

The soft October rains 

Had left some scarlet stains 
Of color ou tlie landscape's neutral ground; 

Those fine ephemeral things, 

The winged motes of sound, 

That sing the "Harvest Home" 

Of ripe Autumn in the gloam 
Of the deej) and bosky woods, in the field and 
by the river, 

Sang that day their best endeavor. 

I said : " In what sweet place 

Shall we meet face to face, 

Her loveliest self to see — 
Meet Nature at her sad autumnal rites, 

And learn the mystery 

Of her unnamed delights ? " 

Then you said : ' ' Let us go 

"Where the late violets blow" 
In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves 
hiding; — 

We'll find she's there abiding." 

Do we recall that day? 

Has its grace passed away? 

Its tenderest, dream-like tone, 
Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air — 

Has its fine perfume flown 

And left the memory bare ? 

Not so; its charm is still 

Over wood, vale and hill — 
The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect 
chorus, 

The spirit that before us 

Enticed us with delights 
To the blue, breezy bights. 



312 WAITING. 

O, beautiful bills that stand 
Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace 

Of both to make you grand, — 

Your loveliness leaves place 

For nothing fairer; fair 

And comjilete bej'ond compare. 
O, lovely purple hills, O, first day of November, 

Be sure that I remember! 



WAITING. 



I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting. 
Though the steps watched for never come anear; 

The wearj'ing want clings to it unabating — 
The fruitless wish for presences once dear. 

No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision ; 

No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow; 
No scene more truly could be called Elysian, 

Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now. 

And yet I pine; — this beautiful completeness 

Is incomplete, to my desiring heart; 
'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness — 

The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art. 

There is no longer pleasure in emotion. 

I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill; 
Who — "painted ships upon a painted ocean," — 

Seem to be moved, yet are forever still. 

Where are they fled? — they whose delightful voices, 
W^hose very footsteps had a charmed fall : 

No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices: 
Change, death, and distance part me now from all. 



WAITING. 313 

And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming, 
Pierces my soul witli every sharp regret; 

The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming, 
Since all that's fair forbids me to forget. 

Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent, 
'Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine, 

Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent. 

In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine : 

Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses. 
And gathered violets to deck my breast, 

Where are ye now ? I miss your dear caresses — 
I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest. 

Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning 

Of prairie fires, far ofi", through gathering gloom; 

While the young moon, and one bright star returning 
Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room. 

Gone is the glimmer of the silent river; 

Hushed is the wind that sped the leaves to-day; 
Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver 

Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way. 

And yet I wait, how vainly ! for a token — 
A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past; 

Alas, I listen for a word unspoken. 

And wail for arms that have embraced their last. 

I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling 

To grow immortal in my happy breast; 
Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing — 

The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest. 

As the conviction sinks into my spirit 

Tliat my quick heart is doomed to death in life; 

Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it, 
I am abandoned to despairing strife. 



314 PALM A. 

To the lost life, alas! no more returning — 
In this to come no semblance of the past — 

Only to wait! — hoping this ceaseless yearning 
May, 'ere long, end — and rest may come at last. 



PAL MA. 

"What tellest thou to heaven, 
Thou royal tropic tree? 
At morn or noon or even. 
Proud dweller by the sea, 
"What is thy song to heaven ? 

The homesick heart that fainted 
In torrid sun and air, 
With peace becomes acquainted 
Beholding thee so fair — 
With joy becomes acquainted: 

And charms itself with fancies 
About thy kingly race — 
AYith gay and wild romances 
That mimic thee in grace — 
Of supple, glorious fancies. 

I feel thou art not tender, 
Scion of sun and sea — 
The wild-bird does not render 
To thee its minstrelsy — 
Fearing thou art not tender: 

But calm, serene and saintly, 
As highborn things should be: 
Who, if they love us faintly. 
Make us love reverently. 
Because they are so saintly. 



PALMA. - 315 



To be loved without loving, 
O proud and princely palm ! 
Is to fancy our ship moving 
With the ocean at dead calm — 
The joy of love is loving. 

Because the Sun did sire thee, 
The Ocean nurse thy youth, 
Because the Stars desire thee, 
The warm winds whisper truth, 
Shall nothing ever fire thee? 

What is th}' tale to heaven 
In the sultry tropic noon? 
"What whisperest thou at even 
To the dusky Indian Moon — 
Has she sins to be forgiven? 

Keep all her secrets; loyal 
As only great souls are — 
As only souls most royal. 
To the flower or to the star 
Alike are purely loyal. 

Palma, if thou hearest, 
Thou jn'oud and princely tree! 
Thou knowest that my Dearest 
Is emblemed forth in thee — 
My kingly Palm, my Dearest. 

1 am his Moon admiring. 
His wooing "Wind, his Star; 
And I glory in desiring 
My Palm-tree from afar — 
Glad as happier lovers are. 
Am happy in desiring! 



316 MAKING MOAN. 



MAKING MOAN. 

I have learned how vatnhj (j'tven 
Life's most jyrecious tldiKjs may be. 

— Landon. 

O, Christ, to-niglit I bring 
A sad, weak heart, to lay before thy feet; 

Too sad, almost, to cling 

Even to Thee; too suffering, 
If Thou shouldst pierce me, to regard the sting; 
Too stunned to feel the pity I entreat 
Closing around me its embraces sweet. 

Shepherd, who gatherest up 
The weary ones from all the world's highways; 
And bringest them to sup 
Of Thy bread, and Thy blessed cup; 
If so Thou will, lay me within the scope 
Onl}^ of Thy great tenderness, that rays 
Too melting may not reach me from Thy face. 

Here let me lie, and press 
My forehead's pain out on Thy mantle's hem; 
And chide not m}^ distress, 
For this, that I have loved thee less, 
In loving so much some, whose sordidness 
Has left me outcast, at the last, from them 
And their poor love, which I cannot contemn. 

No, cannot, even now. 
Put Thee before them in my broken heart. 

But, gentle Shepherd, Thou 

Dost even such as I allow 
The healing of Thy presence. Let my brow 
Be covered from thy sight, while I, apart, 
Brood over in dull pain my mortal hurt. 



CHILDHOOD. 317 



CHILDHOOD. 

A child of scarcely seven years, 

Light haired, and fair as any lily; 
With pure eyes ready in their tears 

At chiding words, or glances chilly; 
And sudden smiles, as inh' bright 

As lamps through alabaster shining, 
With ready mirth, and fancies light, 

Dashed ■with strange dreams of child-divining: 
A child in all infantile grace, 
Yet with the angel lingering in her face. 

A curious, eager, questioning child, 

Whose logic leads to naive conclusions; 
Her little knowledge reconciled 

To truth amid some odd confusions; 
Yet credulous, and loving much 

The problems hardest for her reason, 
Placing her lovely faith on such. 

And deeming disbelief a treason ; 

Doubting that which she can disprove, 
And wisely trusting all the rest to love. 

Such graces dwell beside your hearth, 

And bless you in a priceless pleasure. 
Leaving no sweeter spot on earth 

Than that which holds your household treasure. 
No entertainrhent ever yet 

Had half the exquisite completeness — 
The gladness without one regret, 

You gather from your darling's sweetness: 
An angel sits beside the hearth 
Where e're an innocent child is found on earth. 



318 ^ LITTLE BIRD THAT EVERY ONE KNOWS. 



A LITTLE BIRD THAT EVERY ONE -KNOWS. 

There's a little bird with a wondrous song — 
A little bird that every one knows — 
(Though it sings for the most part under the rose). 
That is petted and pampered wherever it goes, 
And nourished in bosoms gentle and strong. 

This petted bird has a crooked beak 
And eyes like live coals set in its head, 
A gray breast dappled with glowing red — 
Dabbled — not dappled, I should have said, 
From a fancy it has of which I shall speak. 

This eccentricity that I name 
Is, that whenever the bird would sing 
It darts its black head under its wing. 
And moistens its beak in — darling thing ! — 
A human heart that is broken with shame. 

Then this cherished bird its song begins — 
Always begins its song one way — 
AVith two little dulcet words, They Say, 
Carolled in such a charming way 
That the listener's heart it surely wins. 

This sweetest of songsters sits beside 
Every hearth in this Christian land, 
Ever so humble or never so grand. 
Gloating o'er crumbs which many a hand 
Gathers to nourish it, far and wide. 

Over each crumb that it gathers up 
It winningly carols those two soft words 
In the dulcet notes of the sweetest of birds. 
Darting its sharp beak under its wing 
As it might in a ruby drinking-cup. 



WAYWABI) LOVE. 319 

A delicate thing' is our bird withal 

And owns but a fickle appetite, 

So that old and young take a keen delight 

In serving it ever, day and night, 

With the last gay heart now turned to gall. 

Thus, though a dainty dear, it sings 

In a very well-conditioned way 

A truly wonderful sort of lay. 

Whose burden is ever the same — They Sat — 

Darting its dabbled beak under its wdngs. 



WAYWARD LOVE. 

I leant above your chair last night. 

And on your brow once and again, 
I pressed a kiss as still and light 

As I would have your bosom's pain. 
You did not feel the gentle touch, 

It gave you neither grief nor pleasure. 
Though that caress held, oh, so much, 

Of love and blessing without measure. 

Thus ever when I see you sad. 

My heart toward you overflows; 
But when again j^ou're gay and glad, 

I shrink back into cold re^DOse, 
I know not why I like you best, 

O'erclouded by a passing sorrow — 
Unless because it gives a zest 

To the iui^ouciance of to-morrow. 

You're welcome to my light caress. 
And all the love that with it went; 

To live, and love you any less. 

Would rob me of my soul's content. 



320 ^ LYRIC OF LIFE. 

Continue sometimes to he sad, 
That I may feel that pity tender, 

Which grieves for you, and yet is glad 
Of an excuse for love's surrender. 



A LYRIC OF LIFE. 

Said one to me: " I seem to be — 
Like a bird blown out to sea. 
In the hurricane's wild track — 
Lost, wing-weary, beating back 
Vainly toward a fading shore, 
It shall rest on nevermore." 

Said I: " Betide, some good ships ride. 

Over all the waters wide; 

Spread your wings upon the blast. 

Let it bear you far and fast: 

In some sea, serene and blue, 

Succor-ships are waiting you." 

This soul then said: " Would I were dead- 
Billows rolling o'er my head! 
Those that sail the ships will cast 
Storm-waifs back into the blast; 
Omens evil will they call 
What the hurricane lets fall." 

For my reply : ' ' Beneath the sky 

Countless isles of beauty lie: 

Waifs upon the ocean thrown. 

After tossings long and lone. 

To those blessed shores have come. 

Finding there love, heaven, and home." 

This soul to me: " The seething sea, 
Tossing hungry under me. 



FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 321 

I fear to trust; the ships I fear; 
I see no isle of beauty near; 
The sun is blotted out — no more 
'Twill shine for me on any shore." 

Once more I said: " Be not afraid; 
Yield to the storm without a dread; 
For the tree, by temj^ests torn 
From its native soil, is borne 
Green, to where its ripened fruit 
Gives a sturdy forest-root. 

That which we lose, we think we choose, 

Oft, from slavery to use. 

Shocks that break our chains, tho' rude, 

Open paths to highest good: 

AVise, my sister soul, is she 

"Who takes of life the proffered key." 



FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

"Nay, Hylas, I have come 
To where life's landscape takes a western slope. 
And breezes from the occidental shores 
Sigh thro' the thinning locks around my brow, 
And on my cheeks fan flickering summer fires. 
Oh, winged feet of Time, forget your flight, 
And let me dream of those rose-scented bowers 
That lapped my soul in youth's enchanted East! 
It needs no demon-essence of Hasheesh 
To flash that sunrise glory in my eyes ! — 
It needs no Flora to bring back those flowers — 
No gay Apollo to sound liquid reeds — 
No muse to consecrate the hills and streams — 
No God or oracle within those groves 
21 



322 FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

To render sacred all the emerald glooms: 
For here dwelt such bright angels as attend 
The innocent waj's of youth's unsullied feet; 
And all the beautiful band of sinless hopes, 
Twining their crowns of pearl-white amaranth; 
And ros}', dream-draped, sapphire-eyed desires 
Whose twin-born deities were Truth and Faith 
Having their altars over all the land. 
Beauty held court within its vales by day, 
And Love made concert wdth the nightingales 
In singing 'mong the myrtles, starry eves." 

"You are inspired, Zobedia, your ej'es 
Look not upon the present summer world, 
But see some mystery beyond the close 
Of this pale blue horizon." 

"Erewhile I wandered from this happy land. 
Crowned with its roses, M'earing in my eyes 
Reflections of its shining glorious heaven. 
And bearing on my breast and in my hands 
Its violets, and lilies white and sweet, — 
Following the music floating in the air 
Made by the fall of founts, the voice of streams 
And murmur of the winds among the trees, 
I strayed in reveries of soft delight 
Beyond the bounds of this delicious East. 

But oh, the splendors of that newer clime! 
It was as if those oriental dreams 
In which my soul was steeped to fervidness, 
Were here transmuted to their golden real 
With added glories for each shape or hue. 
The stately trees wore coronals of flowers 
That swung their censers in the mid-day sun: 
The pines and palms of my delightful east 
Chaunted their wild songs nearer to the stars; 



FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 323 

Even the roses had more exquisite hues. 

And for one blossom I had left behind 

I found a bower in this fragrant land. 

Bright birds, no larger than the costly gems 

The river bedded in their golden sands, 

Sparkle like prismal rain-drops 'mong the leaves; 

And others sang, or flashed their jDlumage gay 

Like rainbow fragments on my dazzled eyes. 

The sky had warmer teints : I could not tell 

"Whether the heavens lent color to the flowers, 

Or but reflected that w^hich glowed in them. 

The gales that blew from off the cloud-lost hills, 

Struck from the clambering vines Eolian songs, 

That mingled with the splashing noise of founts. 

In music such as stirs to passionate thought: 

This peerless land was thronged with souls like mine, 

Straying from East to South, impelled unseen, 

And lost, like mine, in its enchanted vales: — 

Souls that conversed ajoart in pairs, or sang 

Low breeze-like airs, more tender than sweet words; 

Save here and there a wanderer like myself. 

Dreaming alone, and dropping silent tears. 

Scarce knowing why, upon the little group 

Of Eastern flowers we had not yet resigned: — 

'Till one came softly smiling in my eyes, 

And dried their tears with radiance from his own. 

At last it came — I knew not how it came — 

But a tornado swept this sunny South, 

And Avhen I woke once more, I stood alone. 

My senses sickened at the dismal waste. 

And caring not, now all things bright were dead, 

That a volcano rolled its burning tide 

In fiery rivers far athwart the land, 

I turned my feet to aimless wanderings. 

The equatorial sun poured scorching beams, 



324 NEVADA. 

Ou uiy defenceless head. The burning winds 

Seemed drying up the blood within my veins. 

The straggling flowers that had outlived the storm 

AVou but a feeble, half-contemptuous smile; 

And if a bird attempted a brief song, 

I closed my ears lest it should burst my brain. 

After much wandering I came at last 

To cooler skies and a less stifling air; 

And finally to this more temjDerate clime. 

Where every beauty is of milder type — 

Where the simoon nor tempest ever conie, 

And I can soothe the fever of my soul 

In the bland breezes blowing from the West." 



NEVADA. 



Sphinx, down whose rugged face 
The sliding centuries their furrows cleave 
By sun and frost and cloud-burst; scarce to leave 

Perceptible a trace 

Of age or sorrow; 
Faint hints of yesterdays with no to-morrow; — 
My mind regards thee with a questioning eye, 

To know thy secret, high. 

If Theban mysterj'. 
With head of woman, soaring, bird-like wings 
And serpent's tail on lion's trunk, were things 

Puzzling in history; 

And men invented 
For it an origin which represented 
Chimera and a monster double-headed, 

By myths Pbenician wedded — 

Their issue being this — • 
This most chimerical and wonderous thing 



NEVADA. 325 

From whose dumb month uot even the gods could wring 

Truth, nor antithesis: 

Then, what I think is, 
This creature — being chief among men's sphinxes — 
Is eloquent, and overflows with story, 

Beside thy silence hoary! 

Nevada ! — -desert waste ! 
Mighty, and inhospitable, and stern; 
Hiding a meaning over which we yearn 

In eager, panting haste — 

Grasping and losing, 
Still being deluded ever by our choosing — 
Answer us Sphinx: What is thy meaning double 

But endless toil and trouble ? 

Inscrutable, men strive 
To rend thy secret from thy rocky breast; 
Breaking their hearts, and periling heaven's rest 

For hopes that cannot thrive; 

Whilst unrelenting. 
Upon thy mountain throne, and unrepenting. 
Thou sittest, basking in a fervid sun. 

Seeing or hearing none. 

I sit beneath thy stars, 
The shallop moon beached on a bank of clouds — ; 
And see thy mountains wrapped in shadowed shrouds. 

Glad that the darkness bars 

The day's suggestion — 
The endless repetition of one question; 
Glad that thy stony face I cannot see, 

Nevada — Mystery ! 



326 THE VINE. 

THE VINE. 

" Too many clusters weaken the vine" — 
Aud that is why, on this morn in May, 

She who should walk doth weakly recline 

By the window whose view overlooks the Bay; 

While I and the " clusters" dance in the sun. 
Defying- the breeze coming in from the sea, 
Mocking the bird-song and chasing the bee. 

Letting our fullness of mirth over-run. 

While the " Vine " at the window smiles down on our 
glee. 

If I should vow that these " clusters" are fair. 
So, you would say, are a million more; 

Ah, even jewels a rank must share — 
Not every diamond 's a Koh-i-noor! 

Thus when our Lillian, needing but wings, 
Plays us the queen of the fairies, we deem 
Grace such as hers a bewildering dream — 

Her laughter, her gestures, a dozen things. 
Furnish our worshiping fondness a theme. 

Or when our Alice, scarcely less tall, 

And none the less fair, tries her slim baby feet, 
Or a new has lisped, to the pride of us all. 

Smiling, we cr}', " was aught ever so sweet?" 
Even w^ee Bektha, turning her eyes, 

Searching and slow from one face to another — 
Wrinkling her brow in a comic surprise. 

And winking so soberly at her pale mother, 
For a baby, is woudrously pretty and wise! 

AVell, let the " vine " recline in the sun — 

Three such rare " clusters " in three short j-ears. 
Have sapped the red wine in her veins that should 
run — 



WHAT THE SEA SAID TO ME. 327 

For the choicest of species the gardener fears ! 
Lillian, queen of the lilies shall be, 

Fair, tall and graceful — queenly in will; 
Alice a Provence rose — rarely sweet she; 

Bertha Narcissa — white daffodil — 
And the "vine," once more strong, shall entwine 
around the three ! 



WHAT THE SEA SAID TO ME. 

One evening as I sat beside the sea, 
A little rippling wave stole up to me, 
And whispered softly, yet impressively, 

The word Eternity : 
I smiled, that anything so small should utter, 
A word the ocean in its wrath might mutter; 
And with a mirthful fancy, vainly strove. 
To suit its cadence to some word of love — 
But all the little wave would say to me, 
Was, over and again. Eternity! 

After a time, the winds, from their dark caves. 
Arose, and wrestled with the swelling waves. 
Shrieking as doth a madman when he raves; 

Yet still Eternity 
Was spoken audibly unto my hearing; 
While foaming billows, their huge crests up-rearing, 
Rushed with a furious force upon the shore. 
That only answered with a sullen roar; 
As if it hoarsely echoed what the sea 
Said with such emphasis— Eternity ! 

And by and b}', the sky grew dun and dim; 
Soon all was darkness, save the foam's white gleam; 
And all was silence save the sea's deep hymn — 
That hymn Eternity : 



328 HYMN. 

While some dread presence, fill the darkness filling, 
Crept round my heart, its health}' pulses chilling; 
Making the night, so awful unto me. 
More fearful with that word Eternity. 

So that my spirit, trembling and afraid, 
Bowed down itself before its God, and prayed 
For His strong arm of terror to be stayed; 

And sighed Eternity 
From its white lips, as the dark sea, subsiding, 
Sank iuto broken murmurs; and the gliding 
Of the soothed waters seemed once more to me 
The whisper I first heard. Eternity. 

But now I mocked not what the ripple said: 

I only reverently bent my head, 

"While the pure stars, unveiled, their lustre shed 

Upon the peaceful sea — 
And the mild moon, with a majestic motion. 
Uprose, and shed upon the murmuring ocean, 
Her calm and radiant glory, as if she 
Knew it the symbol of Eternity. 



H Y I\I N. 

Down through the dark, my God, 

Reach me Thy hand; 
Guide me along the road 

I fail to understand. 
Blindly I grope my way. 

In doubt and fear. 
Uncertain when I pray 

If Thou art near. 

O, God, renew my trust. 
Hear when I cry ; 



DO YOU HEAR THE WOMEN PRAYING. 329 

Out of the cloud and dust 

Lift me to tliee on high. 
The crooked paths make jDlain, 

The burden light; 
Touch me and heal my pain, 

And clear my sight. 

O, take my hand in Thine, 

And lead me so 
That all my steps incline 

In Thy right way to go. 
Out of this awful night 

Some whisper send. 
That I may feel my God, 

My loving friend. 

O, let me feel and see 

Thy hand and face; 
And let me learn of Thee 

My true right place. 
For I am Thine, and Thou 

Art also mine. 
Unto Thy will I bow. 

Helper divine! 



DO YOU HEAR THE WOMEN PRAYING.? 

[Eead before the Women's Praj'er League of Portland, Oregon, May 
27, 1874.] 

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers ? 

Do you hear what words they say ? 
These, this free-born nation's wives and mothers, 

Bowing, where you proudly stand, to pray! 
Can you coldly look upon their faces. 

Pale, sad faces, seamed with frequent tears; 



330 DO YOU HEAR THE WOMEN PRAYING. 

See their hands uplifted iu their places — 

Hands that toiled for all your boyhood's years? 

Can you see your wives and daughters pleading 

In the dust you spurn beneath your feet, 
Baring hearts for years in secret bleeding, 

To the scoffs and jestings of the street? 
Can you hear, and yet not heed the crying 

Of the children perishing for bread ? 
Born in fear, not love, and daily dying, 

Cursed of God, they think, but cursed of yon instead? 

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers? 

Hear the oft-repeated burden of their prayer — 
Hear them asking for one boon above all others — 

Not for vengeance on the wrongs they have to bear; 
But imploring, as their Lord did, " God forgive them, 

For the}' know not what they do; 
Strike the sin, but spare the sinners — save them" — 

Meaning, oh ye men and brothers, you ! 

For your heels have ground the women's faces; 

You have coined their blood and tears for gold; 
Have betrayed their kisses and embraces — 

Returned their love with curses twentyfold; 
Made the wife's crown one of thorns and not of honor, 

Made her motherhood a pain and dread; 
Heaped life's toil unrecompensed upon her; 

Laid her sons upon her bosom, dead! 

Do you hear the women jDraying, oh my brothers? 

Have you not one word to say? 
Will njud God be as gentle as these mothers, 

If you dare to saj' them nay ? 
Oh, ye men, God waits for you to answer 

The i^rayers that to him rise. 
He waits to know if you are just ere He is — 

There your deliverance lies! 



"Of7i? LIFE IS twofold:' 331 

Rise and assert the manliood of this nation, 

Its courage, honor, might — 
Wipe oflf the dust of our humihation — 

Dare nobly to do right ! 
Shall women plead from out the dust forever ? 

"Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray? 
Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor. 

And seize the world's salvation while you may. 

Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean. 

The sound of praj^er is heard; 
And in our heai'ts great billows of emotion 

At every breath are stirred. 
From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valley 

The voice of women sounds the cry, " Come up!" 
O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally — 

Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup! 



"OUR LIFE IS TWOFOLD." 

Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie. 
On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dim 
And purple twilight, shut out from the sky, 
Which is too garish for my softer whim. 
And while I, looking inward on my thought. 
Tell thee Avhat phantoms thicken in its air. 
Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught. 
With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair: 
I shall see inly better if thou keep 
My outer senses in a charmed sleep. 

Sweet friend! — I love that pleasant name of friend- 
We walk not ever singly, through the world; 
But even as our shadow doth attend 
Our going in the sunshine, and is furled 



332 ''OUR LIFE IS TWOFOLD." 

About us in the darkness — so that shade 

"Which hauuts our other self, is faintly seen 

Beside us in our gladness, and is made 

To wrap us coldy life's bright hours between. 

Unconseiouslj' we court it. In our youth, 

"While yet our morning sky is pink with joy, 

"We, curious if our happiness be truth, 

Try to discern the shadow of alloy. 

O, I remember well the earliest time 

A sorrow touched me, and I nursed it then; 

Tho' but few summers of our northern clime 

Had sunned my growth among the souls of men. 

In an old wood, reputed for its age. 

And for its beauty wild and picturesque; 

The bound and goal of each day's pilgrimage, 

Where were all forms of graceful and grotesque; 

And countless hues, from the dark stately pine 

That whispered its wild mysteries to my ear. 

To the smooth silver of the birch-trees shine. 

Showing between the aspens straight and fair; 

"With forest flowers, and delicate vines that crept 

From the rich soil far up among the trees, 

Seeking that light their boughs did intercept, 

And dalliance and caresses of the breeze. 

In midst of these, sheltered from sun and wind 

Glimmered a lake, in long and shining curves, 

Like a bright fillet that should serve to bind 

That scene to earth — if she the gem deserves! 

For gem it was, as proud upon her brow 

As jewels on the forehead of a queen; 

And one thought as one turned from it, of how 

Eve exiled, must have missed some just such scene. 

O, there I type my life! I used to sigh 

Sitting on this side, with my lap piled up 

"With violets of the real sapphire dye, 



"OUR LIFE IS TWOFOLD." 333 

For the gay gold of the T)right buttercup 
Spangling the green sod on the other side — 
For the lake's breadth was but an arrow's flight, 
And the brief distance did not serre to hide 
What yet could not be reached except by sight. 

Day after day I dreamed there, while my heart 
Gathered up knowledge in its childish way. 
Making fine pictures with unconscious art, 
And learning beauty more and more each day. 
Ever and ever haunted I that spot — 
Sitting in dells scooped out between the hills. 
That rising close around me, formed a grot 
Fragrant with ferns, and musical with rills. 
Far up above me grew the long-armed beech, 
Dropping its branches down in graceful bent; 
While farther up, beyond my utmost reach. 
Stood dusky hemlocks, crowning the ascent. 
And all about were sweeter sights and sounds 
Than elsewhere, but in poet's dream, abounds. 

Thus, and because my life was all too fair, 

I sought to color it with thoughts I nursed 

In sylvan solitudes: and in the air 

Of these soft, silent influences, I first 

Saw, or felt, rather, that the shadow fell 

Upon my pathway from the light behind — 

The light of youth's first joyousness. Ah, well, 

If it had stayed there, nor been more unkind! 

My earliest sorrow was a flower's death — 

At which I wept until my swollen eyes 

Refused to shed more tears — just that my wreath 

One morn in autumn lacked its choicest dyes. 

So, knowing what it was to have a loss; 

I went on losing, and the shadow grew 

Darker and longer, 'till it lies across 



33 J: SOUVENIR. 

My patll^Ya3^ to the measure of my view. 
AVe all remember sorrow's first impress — 
No matter whether we had cause to grieve, 
Or Avhether sad in very willfuhiess — 
The leason is the same that we receive. 
And afterwards, Avben the great shadow falls — 
The tempest — when the lightning's flash reveals 
The darkness brooding o'er us, and appals 
Hope by the terror of the stroke it deals — 
Then, how the shadow hugs us in its fold! 
AVe see no light behind, and none to come; 
But dumbly shiver in the gloom and cold. 
Or with despair lie down, and wait our doom. 

Sweet, press thy cheek upon my own again — 
Even now my life's dark ghost is haunting nigh : 
Sing me to sleep with some old favorite strain — 
Some gentle poet's loving lullaby; 
For I would dream, and in my dream forget 
Our twofold life is full of shadows set. 



SOUVENIR. 

You ask me, "Do you think of me? 

Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river, 
"NVbich pours itself into the sea. 

Yet empties its own channel never. 

All other thoughts are like these sail 
Drifting the river's surface over; 

They veer about with every gale — 
The river keeps its course forever. 

So deep and still, so strong and true. 
The current of my soul sets thee-ward. 

Thy river I, my ocean you. 

And all myself am running seaward. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 335 

I ONLY WISH TO KNOW. 

Pray do not take the kiss again 

I risked so much in getting", 
Nor let my blushes make you vain 

To your and my regretting. 
I'm sure I've heard your sex repeat 

A thousand times or so, 
That stolen kisses are most sweet — 

I only wished to know! 

I own 'twas not so neatly done 

As you know how to do it. 
And that the fright out-did the fun. 

But still I do not rue it. 
I can afford the extra beat 

My heart took at your " Oh!" 
Which plainly said that kiss was sweet — 

When I so ivished to Joiow ! 

Nay, I will not give back the kiss. 

Nor will I take a second; 
Creme de la creme of pain and bliss 

This one shall e'er be reckoned. 
The pain was mine, the bliss was — ours. 

You smile to hear it so; 
But the same thought was surely yours. 

As I have cause to know. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

The highest use of happy love is this; 

To make us loving to the loveless ones; 
Willing indeed to halve our meed of bliss. 
If our sweet plenty others' want atones: 
Of love's abundance may God give thee store. 
To spend in love's sweet charities, Lexore. 



336 THE POETS MINISTERS. 

LOVE'S FOOTSTEPS. 

I sang a song of olden times, 
Sitting upon our sacred hill — 
Sang it to feel my bosom thrill 

To the sweet pathos of its rhymes. 

I trilled the music o'er and o'er, 
And happy, gazed upon the scene. 
Thinking that there had never been 

So blue a sea, so fair a shore. 

A vague half dream was in my mind; 

I hardly saw how sat the sun; 

I noted not the day was gone 
The rosy Avestern hills behind. 

'Till, soft as if Apollo blew 
For me the sweet Thessaliau flute, 
I heard a sound which made me mute, 

And more than singing,thrilled me through. 

Thy step — well known and well beloved! 

No more I dreamed on shore or sea; 

I thought of, saw but only thee, 
Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved. 



THE POET'S MINISTERS. 
roET. 
Oh, my soul ! the draught is bitter 
Yet it must be sweetly drunken: 
Heart and soul ! the grinding fetter 

Galls, yet have ye never shrunken: 
Heart and soul, and pining spirit. 
Fail me not I no coward weakness 



THE POETS MINISTERS. 337 

Such as ye are should'inherit — 

Be ye strong even in your meekness. 

Bom were ye to these strange uses, 

To brief joy and crushing ill, 
To small good and great abuses; 

Yet oh, yield not, till they kill. 
The stag wounded runnetb steady 

With his blood in streams a-gushing; 
Soul and spirit, be ye ready 

For the arrows toward ye rushing. 

SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS. 

Now what ails our gentle friend ? 

In his eye a meaning double, 
Sorrow and defiance blend — 

Let us soothe him of his trouble. 
Poet ! do not pass us by : 

See how we are robed to meet you; 
Heed you not our perfumed sigh ? 

Heed you not how sweet we greet you ? 
Ever since the breath of morn 

We have waited for your coming, 
Fearing when the bee's dull horn 

Round our quiet bower was humming: 
We have kept our sweets for thee — 

Poet, do not pass us by : 
Place us on thy breast, for see ! 

By the sunset we must die. 

SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 

Bathe thy pale face in the flood 

Which overflows this crystal fountain, 

Then to rouse thy sluggish blood. 
Seek its source far up the mountain. 

Note thou how the stream doth sing- 
Its soft carol, low and light, 

22 



338 THE POETS MINISTERS. 

To tlie jagged rodks that fling 

Mildew sliadows, black and blight. 
Learn a lesson from the stream, 

Poet! though thy path may lie 
Hid forever from the gleam 

Of the blue and sunny sky, — 
Though thy way be steep and long. 

Sing thou still a cheerful song! 

SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 

Come sister spirits, touch his eyelids newly, 

With that rare juice whose magic power it is. 
To give the rose-hue to those things which truly 

Wear the sad livery of ugliness. 
Oh, dignify the office of the meanest 

Of all God's manifold created things; 
And sprinkle his heart's wounds with the serenest 

Waters of sweetness, from our fabled springs. 
Oh, close him round with visions of all rareness. 

Make him see everything with smiling eye; 
Let all his dreams be unsurpassed for fairness, 

And what we feign out-charm reality. 
Come, sister s[)irits, up and do your duty; 
When the Poet pines, feast his soul with beauty. 

SPIRIT OF THE TREES. 

Let us wave our branches gently 

With a murmur low and loving; 
He will say we sang him quaintly 

Some old ballad, sweetly moving. 
'Tis of all the ways the surest 

To awake a poet's fancies, 
For he loves these things the purest — 

Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies. 
He has loved us, we will love him. 

And will cheer his hour of sadness. 



J 



THE POETS MINISTERS. 339 

Spirits, wave your boughs above him 
To a measure of soft gladness. 

SPIRIT OF LOVE. 

Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well. 

But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth, 
And till I spell him with my magic spell. 

In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth. 
Behold I touch his heart, and there uj)spring 

Blooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes; 
His scornful lips upon the instant sing. 

And all his pulses leap with ecstasies, 
'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot live 
"Without caressing and without caress, 

"Which all to charity his fellows give; 
But I will wrap his soul in tenderness. 

And straightway from his lips will burst a song 

All loving hearts shall echo and prolong. 



O Earth, and Sky, and Flowers, and Streams agushing, 

God made ye beautiful to make us blest: 
O bright- winged Songsters through the blue air rushing; 

O murmuring Tree-tops, by the winds carest; 
O "Waves of Ocean, Kipples of the River, 

O Dew and Fragrance, Sunlight, and Starbeam, 
O blessed summer-sounds that round me quiver. 

Delights impassable that round me teem — 
Oh all things beautiful ! God made ye so 
That the glad hearts of men might overflow ! 

O Soul within me, whose wings sweep a lyre — 

God gave thee song that thou might'st give him praise; 

O Heart that glows with the Promethean fire, 
O Spirit whose fine chords some influence plays: 

O all sweet thoughts and beautiful emotions, 
O smiles and tears, and trembling and delight, 



310 SUNSET AT MOUTH OF COLUMBIA RIVER. 

Have ye not all part iu the soul's devotious, 
To help it swell its anthem's happy height? 
Spirit of Love, of (>od, of inspiration, 
The poet's glad heart bursts in acclamation ! 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

Ring every flower-bell on the wind. 

And let each insect louder sing; 
Let elfin " joy be unconfined;" 

And let the laughing fairies bring 
A wreath enchanted, and to bind 

Upon the Poet's worthy brow 
Heartsease and laurel, and a kind 

Of valley lily, white as snow; 
And fresh Ma^'-roses, branching long — 

Braid all these in a garland gay, 
To crown the Poet for his song, 

Sung in our haunts this summer day ! 



SUNSET AT THE MOUTH OF THE COLUIMBIA. 

There sinks the sun; like cavalier of old, 

Servant of crafty Spain, 
He flaunts his banner, barred with blood and gold, 

Wide o'er the western main, 
A thousand spear heads glint beyond the trees 

In columns bright and long: 
While kindling fancy hears upon the breeze 

The swell and shout of song. 

And yet, not here Sj^ain's gay, adventui'ous host, 

Dipped sword or planted cross; 
The treasui-es guarded by this rock-bound coast, 

Counted them gain nor loss. 
The blue Columbia, sired by the etei*nal hills, 



SUNSET AT MOUTH OF COLUMBIA RIVER. 341 

And wedded with the sea; 
O'er golden sands, tithes from a thousand rills, 
Rolled in lone majesty — 

Through deep ravine, through burning, barren plain, 

Through wild and rocky strait, 
Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain. 

Toward the sunset gate. 
While curious eyes, keen with the lust of gold, 

Caught not the informing gleam; 
These mighty breakers age on age have rolled 

To meet this might}^ stream. 

Age after age these noble hills have kept. 

The same majestic lines: 
Age after age the horizon's edge been swept 

By fringe of pointed pines. 
Summers and Winters circling came and went, 

Bringing no chauge of scene; 
Unresting, and unhasting, and unspent, 

Dwelt nature here serene. 

Till God's own time to plant of Freedom's seed, 

In this selected soil; 
Denied forever unto blood and greed; 

But blest to honest toil. 
There sinks the sun. Gay Cavalier! no more 

His banners trail the sea. 
And all his legions shining on the shore 

Fade into mystery. 

The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach. 

Like any starving thing; 
And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach, 

In vain clamoring. 
The shadows fall; just level with mine eye 

Sweet HesjDer stands and shines, 



342 THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 

And shines beneath an arc of golden sky, 
Pinked round with pointed jiines. 

A noble scene! all breadth, deej^ tone and power. 

Suggesting glorious themes; 
Shaming the idler who Avould fill the hour 

AVith unsubstantial dreams. 
Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forth 

The things that yet shall be. 
When through this gate the treasures of the North 

Flow outward to the sea. 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 

Worn and poor, 
The Old Year came to Eternity's door. 
Once, when his limbs were young and strong, 
From that shining portal came he forth, 
Led by the sound of shout and song. 
To the festive halls of jubilant earth; — 
Now, his allotted cycle o'er. 
He waited, spent, by the Golden Door. 

Faint and far — faint and far, 
Surging up soft between sun and star. 
Strains of revelry smote his ear; 
Musical murmurs from lyre and lute — 
Rising in choruses grand and clear, 
Sinking in cadences almost mute — 
Vexing the ear of him who sate 
Wearied beside the Shining Gate. 

Sad and low. 
Flowed in an undertone of woe: 
Wailing among the moons it came, 
Sobbing in echoes against the stars; 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 343 

Smotliered behind some comet's flame, 
Lost in the wind of the war-like Mars, 
— Mingliug, ever and anon, 
With the music's swell a sigh or moan. 

"As in a glass, 
Let the earth once before me pass," 
The Old Year said; and space untold 
Vanished, till nothing came between; 
Folded away, crystal and gold. 
Nor azure air did intervene; 
"As in a glass" he saw the earth 
Decking a bier and waiting a birth. 

"You crown me dead," the Old Year said, 
"Before my parting hour is sped: 
O fickle, false, and reckless world! 
Time to Eternity may not haste ; 
Not till the last Hour's wing is furled 
Within the gate my reign is past! 

Earth! O World! fair, false and vain, 

1 grieve not at my closing reign." 

Yet spirit-sore 
The dead king noted a j^alace door; 
He saw the gay crowd gather in; 
He scanned the face of each passer by; 
Snowiest soul, and heart of sin; 
Tried and untried humanity: 
Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain, 
Braided. at chance in a motley skein. 

"Ill betide 
Ye thankless ones ! " the Old Year cried ; 
" Have I not given you night and day. 
Over and over, score upon score, 
Wherein to live, and love, and pray, 



344 THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 

And suck the rii^e -world to its rotten core ? 

Yet do you reek if my reign be done ? 

E're I pass ye crown the newer one! 

At ball and rout ye dance and shout, 

Shutting men's cries of suffering out, 

That startle the white-tressed silences 

Musing beside the fount of light, 

In the eternal space, to press 

Their roses, each a nebula bright, 

More close to their lips serene. 

While ye wear this unconscious mein!" 

" Even so." 
The revelers said: "We '11 have naught of woe. 
Why should we mourn, who have our fill? 
Enough that the hungry wretches cry: 
We from our plenty cast at Avill 
Some crumbs to make their wet eyelids dry; 
But to the rich the world is fair — 
Why should we grovel in tears and prayer ?" 

In her innocent bliss, 
A fair bride said with sweet earnestness, 
" For the dead Year am I truly sad; 
Since in its happy and hopeful days. 
Every brief hour my heart was glad, 
And blessings were strewn in all my Avays: 
Will it be so forevermore ? 
Will the New Years bring of love new store ?" 

Youth and maid. 
Of their conscious blushes half afraid. 
Shunning each other's tell-tale e3'es, 
Yet cherishing hopes too fond to own; 
Speed the Old Year with secret sighs; 
And smile that his time is overflown; 
Shall they not hear each other saj 
"Dear Love!" ere the New Year 's passed away ? 



J 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 345 

" O, liaste on! 
The year or the pleasure is dead that is gone !" 
Boasted the man of pomp and power; 
" That which we hold is alone the good; 
Give me new pleasures for every hour, 
And grieve over past joys ye who would — 
Joys that are fled are poor, I wis — 
Give me forever the newest bliss!" 

" Wish me joy," 
Girl-Beauty cried, with glances coy: 
" In the New Year a woman I; 
I'll then have jewels in my hair, 
And such rare webs as Princes buy 
Be none too choice for me to wear: , 

I'll queen it as a beauty should. 
And not be won before I'm wooed! " 

" Poor and proud — poor and proud!" 
Sighed a student in the motley crowd — 
" I heard her whisper that aside: 
O fatal fairness, aping heaven 
When earthly most! — I'll not deride — 
God knows that were all good gifts given 
To me as lavishly as rain, 
I'd bring them to her feet again." 

" Here are the fools we use for tools; 
Bending their passion, ere it cools, 
To any need," the cynic said: 
" Lo, I will give him gold, and he 
Shall sell me brain as it were bread ! 
His veiy soul I'll hold in fee 
For baubles that shall buy the hand 
Of the coldest woman in the land!" 



34G THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 

Spirit sore, 
The Old Year cared to see no more ; 
While, as he turned, he heard a moan — 
Frosty and keen was the wintry night — 
Prone on the marble paving-stone, 
Unwatched, unwept, a piteous sight, 
Starved and dying a poor wretch lay; 
Through the blast he heard him gasping say: 

"0, Old Year! 

From sightless eyes you force this tear; 

Sorrows you've heaped upon my head. 

Losses you've gathered to drive me wild, 

All that I lived for, loved, are dead, — 

Brother and sister, wife and child, 

I, too, am perishing as well; 

I shall share the toll of your passing bell!" 

Grieved, and sad, 
For the sins and Avoes the Human had. 
The Old Year strove to avert his eyes; 
But fly or turn wherever he would. 
On his vexed ear smote the mingled cries 
Of revel and new-made widowhood — 
Of grief that would not be comforted 
AVith the loved and beautiful Ij'ing dead. 

Evermore, everj'^ hour. 
Rising from hovel, hall and tower. 
Swelling the strain of discontent; 
Gurgled the hopeless prayer for alms, 
Kung out the Avild oath impotent; 
Echoed by some brief walls of calms, 
Straining the listener's shrinking ears, 
Like silence when thunderbolts are near. 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. Ml 

Across that calm, like gales of balm, 
Some low, sweet household voices came; 
Thrilling, like flute-notes straying out 
From land to sea, some stormy night, 
The ear that listens for the shout 
Of drowning boatmen lost to sight — 
And died away, again so soon 
The pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon. 

Once pure and clear. 
Clarion strains fell on his ear: 
The preacher shook the soulless creeds. 
And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words, 
Yet failed to stir them to good deeds: 
Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds. 
Soared on the air and glanced away, 
Before the eloquent voice could stay. 

" 'Tis very sad the man is mad," 
The men and women gaily said; 
As they, laughing, thread their homeward road. 
Talking of other holidays; 
Of last year, how it rained or snowed; 
"V\"ho went abroad, who "wed a blaze 
Of diamonds with his shoddy bride. 
On certain days — and who had died. 

" Would I were dead. 
And vexed no more," the Old Year said: 
"In vain may the preacher pray and warn; 
The tinkling cymbals in your ears 
Turn every gracious word to scorn; 
Ye care not for the orphan's tears; 
Your sides are fed, and your bodies clad 
Is there anything heaven itself could add?" 



348 THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 

And then he sighed, as one who died, 
With a great wish unsatisfied; 
Around him Hke a wintry sea. 
Whose waves were nations, surged the world. 
Stormy, unstable, constantly 
Upheaved to be again down-hurled; 
Here struggled some for freedom; here 
Oppression rode in the high career. 

In hot debate 
Men struggled, while the hours waxed late; 
Contending with the watchful zeal 
Of gladiators, trained to die; 
Yet not for life, nor country's weal, 
But that their names might hang on high 
As men w^ho loved themselves, indeed, 
And robbed the State to satisfy their need! 

Heads of snow, and eyes aglow 
With fires that youth might blush to know; 
And brows whose youthful fairness shamed 
The desperate thoughts that strove within; 
While each his cause exulting named 
As purest that the world had seen: 
All names thev had to tickle honest ears. 
Reform, and Rights, and sweet Pbilanthrop5''s cares. 

"Well-a-day! Well-a-day!" 
The Old Year strove to put away 
Sight and sound of the reckless earth; 
But soft! from out a cottage door. 
Sweet strains of neither grief nor mirth, 
Upon his dying ear did pour; 
"Give us, O God," the singers said, 
As good a year as this one dead !" 



^J 

THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 349 

Pealing loud from sod to cloud, 
Earth's bell's rang out in a chorus proud; 
Great waves of music shook the air 
From organs pulsing with the sound; 
Hushed was the voice of sob and prayer, 
As time touched the eternal bound : 
To the dead monarch earth was dimmed, 
But the golden portals brighter beamed. 

Sad no more. 
The Old Year reached the golden door. 
Just as the hours with crystal clang 
Aside the shining portals bent 
And murmuring 'raong the spheres there rang 
The chorus of earth's acknowledgment: 
One had jjassed out at the golden door. 
And one had gone in forevermore! 




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